Winter in the Country
Sweet life! how lovely to be here And feel the soft sea-laden breeze Strike my flushed face, the spruce's fair Free limbs to see, the lesser trees' Bare hands to touch, the sparrow's cheep To heed, and watch his nimble flight Above the short brown grass asleep. Love glorious in his friendly might,
Music that every heart could bless, And thoughts of life serene, divine,
Beyond my power to express, Crowd round this lifted heart of mine!
But oh! to leave this paradise For the city's dirty basement room,
Where, beauty hidden from the eyes, A table, bed, bureau, and broom In corner set, two crippled chairs All covered up with dust and grim With hideousness and scars of years, And gaslight burning weird and dim,
Will welcome me . . .
And yet, and yet This very wind, the winter birds The glory of the soft sunset, Come there to me in words.
Claude McKay
Other author posts
Flirtation
ON thy purple mat thy body bare Is fine and limber like a tender tree The motion of thy supple form is rare, Like a lithe panther lolling languidly, Toying and turning slowly in her lair Oh,
December 1919
Last night I heard your voice, mother, The words you sang to me When I, a little barefoot boy, Knelt down against your knee And tears gushed from my heart, mother, And passed beyond its wall, But though the fountain reached my throat The drop...
Russian Cathedral
Bow down my soul in worship very And in the holy silences be lost Bow down before the marble man of woe, Bow down before the singing angel host
Dawn in New York
The Dawn The Dawn The crimson-tinted, comes Out of the low still skies, over the hills, Manhattan's roofs and spires and cheerless domes
