Oh, wind of the summer, sing loud in the night,
    When flutters my heart like a dove;
  One came from thy kingdom, thy realm of delight,
    And gave me the roses of love, of love,
    And gave me the roses of love.

  Oh, wind of the winter, sigh low in thy grief,
    I hear thy compassionate breath;
  I wither, I fall, like the autumn-kissed leaf,
   He gave me the roses of death, of death,
   He gave me the roses of death.

A LOVE SONG

  Ah, love, my love is like a cry in the night,
  A long, loud cry to the empty sky,
  The cry of a man alone in the desert,
  With hands uplifted, with parching lips,

  Oh, rescue me, rescue me,
  Thy form to mine arms,
  The dew of thy lips to my mouth,
  Dost thou hear me?—­my call thro’ the night?

  Darling, I hear thee and answer,
  Thy fountain am I,
  All of the love of my soul will I bring to thee,
  All of the pains of my being shall wring to thee,
  Deep and forever the song of my loving shall sing to thee,
  Ever and ever thro’ day and thro’ night shall I cling to thee. 
  Hearest thou the answer? 
  Darling, I come, I come.

ITCHING HEELS

  Fu’ de peace o’ my eachin’ heels, set down;
    Don’ fiddle dat chune no mo’. 
  Don’ you see how dat melody stuhs me up
    An’ baigs me to tek to de flo’? 
  You knows I ‘s a Christian, good an’ strong;
    I wusship f’om June to June;
  My pra’ahs dey ah loud an’ my hymns ah long: 
    I baig you don’ fiddle dat chune.

  I ‘s a crick in my back an’ a misery hyeah
    Whaih de j’ints ‘s gittin’ ol’ an’ stiff,
  But hit seems lak you brings me de bref o’ my youf;
    W’y, I ’s suttain I noticed a w’iff. 
  Don’ fiddle dat chune no mo’, my chile,
    Don’ fiddle dat chune no mo’;
  I ‘ll git up an’ taih up dis groun’ fu’ a mile,
    An’ den I ‘ll be chu’ched fu’ it, sho’.

  Oh, fiddle dat chune some mo’, I say,
    An’ fiddle it loud an’ fas’: 
  I’s a youngstah ergin in de mi’st o’ my sin;
    De p’esent ‘s gone back to de pas’. 
  I ’ll dance to dat chune, so des fiddle erway;
    I knows how de backslidah feels;
  So fiddle it on ‘twell de break o’ de day
    Fu’ de sake o’ my eachin’ heels.

TO AN INGRATE

  This is to-day, a golden summer’s day
    And yet—­and yet
    My vengeful soul will not forget
  The past, forever now forgot, you say.

  From that half height where I had sadly climbed,
    I stretched my hand,
    I lone in all that land,
  Down there, where, helpless, you were limed.

  Our fingers clasped, and dragging me a pace,
    You struggled up. 
    It is a bitter Cup,
  That now for naught, you turn away your face.