“Morning Song of Love” by Paul Laurence Dunbar


Darling, my darling, my heart is on the wing,
It flies to thee this morning like a bird,
Like happy birds in springtime my spirits soar and sing,
The same sweet song thine ears have often heard.

The sun is in my window, the shadow on the lea,
The wind is moving in the branches green,
And all my life, my darling, is turning unto thee,
And kneeling at thy feet, my own, my queen.

The golden bells are ringing across the distant hill,
Their merry peals come to me soft and clear,
But in my heart’s deep chapel all incense-filled and still
A sweeter bell is sounding for thee, dear.

The bell of love invites thee to come and seek the shrine
Whose altar is erected unto thee,
The offerings, the sacrifice, the prayers, the chants are thine,
And I, my love, thy humble priest will be.

“A Negro Love Song” by Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872 – 1906)


Seen my lady home las’ night,

   Jump back, honey, jump back.
Hel’ huh han’ an’ sque’z it tight,
   Jump back, honey, jump back.
Hyeahd huh sigh a little sigh,
Seen a light gleam f’om huh eye,
An’ a smile go flittin’ by —
   Jump back, honey, jump back.
Hyeahd de win’ blow thoo de pine,
   Jump back, honey, jump back.
Mockin’-bird was singin’ fine,
   Jump back, honey, jump back.
An’ my hea’t was beatin’ so,
When I reached my lady’s do’,
Dat I could n’t ba’ to go —
   Jump back, honey, jump back.
Put my ahm aroun’ huh wais’,
   Jump back, honey, jump back.
Raised huh lips an’ took a tase,
   Jump back, honey, jump back.
Love me, honey, love me true?
Love me well ez I love you?
An’ she answe’d, “‘Cose I do”—
   Jump back, honey, jump back.

“Love and Friendship” by Emily Brontë


Emily_Brontë_croppedLove is like the wild rose-briar,

Friendship like the holly-tree

The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms

But which will bloom most constantly?

The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring,

Its summer blossoms scent the air;

Yet wait till winter comes again

And who will call the wild-briar fair?

Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now

And deck thee with the holly’s sheen,

That when December blights thy brow

He may still leave thy garland green.