Evening Songs

Against the day of sorrow
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Sleep, love sleep,
The night winds sigh,
In soft lullaby.
The Lark is at rest
With the dew on her breast.

So close those dear eyes,
That borrowed their hue
From the heavens so blue,
Sleep, love sleep.

Sleep, love sleep,
The pale moon looks down
On the valleys around,
The Glow Moth is flying,
The South wind is sighing,
And I am low lying,
With lute deftly strung,
To pour out my song,
Sleep, love sleep

There is a tree, by day,
That, at night,
Has a shadow,
A hand huge and black,
With fingers long and black.
	All through the dark,
Against the white man's house,
	In the little wind,
The black hand plucks and plucks
	At the bricks.
The bricks are the color of blood and very small.
	Is it a black hand,
	Or is it a shadow?

And who shall separate the dust
What later we shall be:
Whose keen discerning eye will scan
And solve the mystery?

The high, the low, the rich, the poor,
The black, the white, the red,
And all the chromatic between,
Of whom shall it be said:

Here lies the dust of Africa;
Here are the sons of Rome;
Here lies the one unlabeled,
The world at large his home!

Can one then separate the dust?
Will mankind lie apart,
When life has settled back again
The same as from the start?

O Seed of Peace
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