Thanksgiving Poem, A
Then and Now
Thou Art My Lute
Till The Wind Gets Right
Time To Tinker 'Roun'!
To a Captious Critic
To A Dead Friend
To A Lady Playing The Harp
To A Violet Found on All Saint's
To An Ingrate
To Dr. James Newton Matthews
To E. H. K.
To J. Q.
To Miss Mary Britton
To The Eastern Shore
To the Memory of Mary Young
To the Miami
To The Road
To the South
Trouble In De Kitchen
Turning Of The Babies In The Bed, The
Twell De Night Is Pas'
Two Little Boots
Whut dat you whisperin' keepin' f'om me?
Don't shut me out 'cause I's ol' an' can't see.
Somep'n' 's gone wrong dat's a-causin' you dread,--
Don't be afeared to tell--Whut! mastah dead?
Somebody brung de news early to-day,--
One of de sojers he led, do you say?
Did n't he foller whah ol' mastah led?
How kin he live w'en his leadah is dead?
Let me lay down awhile, dah by his bed;
I wants to t'ink,--hit ain't cleah in my head:--
Killed while a-leadin' his men to fight,--
Dat's whut you said, ain't it, did I hyeah right?
Mastah, my mastah, dead dah in de fiel'?
Lif' me up some,--dah, jes' so I kin kneel.
I was too weak to go wid him, dey said,
Well, now I'll--fin' him--so--mastah is dead.
Yes, suh, I's comin' ez fas' ez I kin,--
'T was kin' o' da'k, but hit's lightah agin:
P'omised yo' pappy I'd allus tek keer
Of you,--yes, mastah,--I's follerin',--hyeah!