| |
| THE SUN, in wanton pride, | |
| Drenches the country-side | |
| With spilt gold from his old autumnal store. | |
| But Scipio sits within the barn’s thick gloom, | |
| The merest crack of light coming in the door— | 5 |
| Sits and husks the corn long after working hours. | |
| Vainly for him the autumn bloom | |
| Is on the flowers. | |
| The inside of the barn is velvet black | |
| Except where a gold thread runs along a crack; | 10 |
| And the inquisitive sun thrusts points of light | |
| Through chink and cranny, piercing the midnight. | |
| The dry husks rattle, and his shuffling feet | |
| Keep time to what he sings—an elusive tune, | |
| Husky and monotonous and sweet, | 15 |
| Scarce audible, so softly does he croon | |
| To keep away the evil eye: | |
| Everybody | |
| Who is livin’ | |
| Got to die. | 20 |
| |
| Across the evening fields the setting sun | |
| Richly intones toil done. | |
| The home-bound negroes idle in the lanes, | |
| Gossiping as they go; coarse laughter falls | |
| On the resonant air; from a far field cat-calls | 25 |
| Float over, and a banjo’s strains. | |
| Shucking corn in the darkness, Scipio in reply | |
| Sits and sings his mournful, husky stave: | |
| Wid a silver spade | |
| You kin dig my grave; | 30 |
| Everybody | |
| Who is livin’ | |
| Got to die. | |
| |
