Jean Toomer

Jean Toomer

1,000 карма
United Kingdom (Great Britain)

November Cotton Flower

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Boll-weevil's coming, and the winter's cold,
Made cotton-stalks look rusty, seasons old,
And cotton, scarce as any southern snow,
Was vanishing; the branch, so pinched and slow,
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People

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To those fixed on white,
White is white,
To those fixed on black,
It is the same,
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Evening Song

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Full moon rising on the waters of my heart,
Lakes and moon and fires,
Cloine tires,
Holding her lips apart
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A Certain Man

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A certain man wishes to be a
Of this earth; he also wants to beA saint and master of the being-world
Conscience cannot exist in the first:
The second cannot exist without conscience
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Reapers

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Black reapers with the sound of steel on
Are sharpening scythes
I see them place the
In their hip-pockets as a thing that's done,
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For MW

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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 A...
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Song of the Son

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Pour O pour that parting soul in songO pour it in the sawdust glow of
Into the velvet pine-smoke air tonight,
And let the valley carry it along
And let the valley carry it along
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