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There is no transcience of twilight in The beauty of your soft dusk-dimpled face, No flicker of a slender flame in space,
In crucibles, fragility crystalline.
There is no fragrance of the jessamine About you, no pathos of some old place At dusk, that crumbles like moth-eater
Beneath the touch.
Nor has there ever been.
Your love is like the folk-song's flaming rise In cane-lipped southern people, like their soul Which burst its bondage in a bold travail;
Your voice is like them singing, soft and wise, Your face, sweetly efflgent of the whole, Inviolate of ways that would feile.
Jean Toomer
Jean Toomer (born Nathan Pinchback Toomer, December 26, 1894 – March 30, 1967) was an American poet and novelist commonly associated with the Ha
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