The Mirror

Outside the cold, cold night; the dripping rain... The water gurgles loosely in the eaves, The savage lashes stripe the rattling pane And beat a tattoo on November leaves. The lamp wick gutters, and the last log steams Upon the ash-filled hearth. Chill grows the room. The ancient clock ticks creakily and seems A fitting portent of the gathering gloom. This is a night we planned. This place is where One day, we would be happy; where the light Should tint your shoulders and your wild flung hair. - Whence we would - oh, we planned a merry morrow - Recklessly part ways with the old hag, Sorrow... Outside the dripping rain; the cold, cold night. [From: Sterling, B. A. (1996) The Collected Poems of Sterling A. Brown . Evanston, III: TriQuarterly Books, p]

Your vividness grants color where   Great need is, in this dingy town,   As you in pride of rose and brown      Thread the dull thoroughfare. Across the Southern sleepiness    Flashes a something swiftly real:    The unavoidable appeal       Of your sharp loveliness. And not as Cavalier scions, do    These listless Southrons, furtive-eyed,    Greet gracefully your proper pride, -        But wonderstruck at you, Regret awhile, that aliens    They will remain, darkly allured    By an inviolable, assured,        Laughing indifference. You pass, provocative, discreet,    Serenely waving to his place,    Each lover of your bronzen face,        Your merry, flashing feet. The impudence filling your eyes    Will call down on your swarthy ...