Page:Negro poets and their poems (IA negropoetstheirp00kerl).pdf/177

Rh And one bird awoke, sang, whirred A blur of moving black against the sun, Sang again—afar off. And I stretched my arms to the redness of the sun, Stretched to my finger tips, And I laughed. Ah! It is good to be alive, good to love, At the dawn, At the spring dawn.

Still are there wonders of the dark and day; The muted shrilling of shy things at night, So small beneath the stars and moon; The peace, dream-frail, but perfect while the light Lies softly on the leaves at noon. These are, and these will be Until Eternity; But she who loved them well has gone away. Each dawn, while yet the east is veiled gray, The birds about her window wake and sing; And far away each day some lark I know is singing where the grasses swing; Some robin calls and calls at dark. These are, and these will be Until Eternity; But she who loved them well has gone away. The wild flowers that she loved down green ways stray; Her roses lift their wistful buds at dawn, But not for eyes that loved them best; Only her little pansies are all gone,