Page:The complete poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar.pdf/213

 
 * 'T ain't de time to talk o' bein' good to men;

Ef you want to preach a sermon ez you nevah preached befo',
 * Preach dat sermon wid a shoat er wid er hen;

Bein' good is heap sight bettah den a-dallyin' wid sin,
 * An' dey ain't nobody roun' dat knows it mo',

But I t'ink dat 'ligion's sweeter w'en it kind o' mixes in
 * Wid a little Chrismus basket at de do'.

 

to sweet music my lady is dancing
 * My heart to mild frenzy her beauty inspires.

Into my face are her brown eyes a-glancing,
 * And swift my whole frame thrills with tremulous fires.

Dance, lady, dance, for the moments are fleeting,
 * Pause not to place yon refractory curl;

Life is for love and the night is for sweeting;
 * Dreamily, joyously, circle and whirl.

Oh, how those viols are throbbing and pleading;
 * A prayer is scarce needed in sound of their strain.

Surely and lightly as round you are speeding,
 * You turn to confusion my heart and my brain.

Dance, lady, dance to the viol's soft calling,
 * Skip it and trip it as light as the air;

Dance, for the moments like rose leaves are falling,
 * Strikes, now, the clock from its place on the stair.

Now sinks the melody lower and lower,
 * The weary musicians scarce seeming to play.

Ah, love, your steps now are slower and slower,
 * The smile on your face is more sad and less gay.

Dance, lady, dance to the brink of our parting,
 * My heart and your step must not fail to be light.

Dance! Just a turn—tho' the tear-drop be starting.
 * Ah—now it is done—so—my lady, good-night!

 

Phyllis sighs and from her eyes The light dies out; my soul replies 