Songs of Africa

OH, I will make the clearing, Lord,
And I will plant the corn;
I’ll sleep beneath the stranger stars
And rise before the morn,
To build the little cabin where
The future shall be born.

To Abraham the exile, Lord,
What promises were thine!
He might not know the sum of them,
But he might see them shine
In all the stars and all the sands
Thou settest for a sign.

Such starry signs and promises
I do not ask of thee;
I am thy servant, Lord, for love,
And love is all my fee;
But just a little dream of home —
Would that be spoiling me?

The butterflies are bright above the trail;
They lace the bush with scarlet and with blue; —
O little dream, so faithful and so frail,
The jewel of their beauty is for you.

Hard on the Southern Cross the Centaurs ride;
They point their starry spears the long night through.
O little restless dream, be still and bide!
The jewel of that beauty is for you.

The white man knows the treasure of the land, —
The dawn, the secret flower, the silver dew; —
O little dream, hold out your hollowed hand!
The jewel of their beauty is for you.

The little canoes with the dawn
Take the surf with a leap and are gone, —
And the heart in the white man’s breast
Would leap and be gone with the rest.

Oh, bright are the silvery hues
Of the catch in the little canoes, —
But the heart of the white man yet
Hangs furled like an empty net.

To the spring at the skirt of the town
The path in the grass is brown, —
So the thoughts of the white man’s heart
Wear a path to a place apart.

Oh, sweet is the water poured
From the neck of the black girl’s gourd, —
But the thoughts of the white man cry
That the white man’s well is dry.

Where the lamp of peace is lit,
Pass and never sigh,
Lest thy sighing trouble it
As thou goest by;
Lest thy sighing beat about
That faint flame and it die out.

Every little air of Spring
Sways the idle door,
Lean more lightly, lest it swing
Open as before —
And the inmate, roused at last,
Draw thee in and hold thee fast.