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The Barrier
The Midnight wooed the Morning-Star,And prayed her: "Love come nearer;
Your swinging coldly there afar
To me but makes you dearer!"
The Morning-Star was pale with dole
As said she, low replying:
"Oh, lover mine, soul of my soul,
For you I too am sighing.
"But One ordained when we were born,
In spite of Love's insistence,
That Night might only view the Morn
Adoring at a distance."
But as she spoke the jealous Sun
Across the heavens panted.
"Oh, whining fools," he cried, "have done;
Your wishes shall be granted!"
He hurled his flaming lances far;
The twain stood unaffrighted--
And Midnight and the Morning-Star
Lay down in death united!
(The end)
Paul Laurence Dunbar's poem: Barrier
NEXT BOOKS
Dream on, for dreams are sweet: Do not awaken! Dream on, and at thy feet Pomegranates shall be shaken. Who likeneth the youth Of life to morning? 'Tis like the night in truth, Rose-coloured dreams adorning. The wind is soft above, The shadows umber. (There is a dream called Love.) Take thou the fullest slumber! In Lethe's soothing stream, Thy thirst thou slakest. Sleep, sleep; 't is sweet to dream.
Dreams (dream On, For Dreams Are Sweet)
Dream on, for dreams are sweet: Do not awaken! Dream on, and at thy feet Pomegranates shall be shaken. Who likeneth the youth Of life to morning? 'Tis like the night in truth, Rose-coloured dreams adorning. The wind is soft above, The shadows umber. (There is a dream called Love.) Take thou the fullest slumber! In Lethe's soothing stream, Thy thirst thou slakest. Sleep, sleep; 't is sweet to dream.
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Just whistle a bit, if the day be dark, And the sky be overcast: If mute be the voice of the piping lark, Why, pipe your own small blast. And it's wonderful how o'er the gray sky-track The truant warbler comes stealing back. But why need he come? for your soul's at rest, And the song in the heart,--ah, that is best. Just whistle a bit, if the night be drear And the stars refuse to shine: And a gleam that mocks the starlight clear
Just Whistle A Bit
Just whistle a bit, if the day be dark, And the sky be overcast: If mute be the voice of the piping lark, Why, pipe your own small blast. And it's wonderful how o'er the gray sky-track The truant warbler comes stealing back. But why need he come? for your soul's at rest, And the song in the heart,--ah, that is best. Just whistle a bit, if the night be drear And the stars refuse to shine: And a gleam that mocks the starlight clear
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