As in that grey exurban wasteland in Gatsby
When the white sky darkens over the city
Of ashes, far from the once happy valley,
This daze spreads across the blank faces
Of the inhabitants, suddenly deprived
Of the kingdom's original promised gift.
Did I say kingdom when I meant place
Of worship? Original when I meant
Damaged in handling? Promised when
I meant stolen? Gift when I meant
Trick? Inhabitants when I meant slaves?
Slaves when I meant clowns
Who have wandered into test sites? Test
Sites when I meant contagious hospitals?

Dismount and drink this wine
Where to? I ask
At odds with the world:
Return to rest by the South Hill
Go Go Do not ask again
Endless, the white clouds.

All ye nations, pause a moment! listen to the Negro's voice,
Coming up from all vocations where his life has made a choice!
Listen to each rank or station, as you cross the sea of time,
It is heard in ev'ry nation, any race and ev'ry clime.

If you'll go among the tradesmen and their work of worth inspect,
If you'll tarry with the lowly and their lack of skill detect,
If you'll travel o'er the planet, filled with thought, with action stirred,
In them all you'll find, my brother, that the Negro's voice is heard.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy;
All play and no work makes Jack a mere toy.

All was for you: and you are dead.
For, came there sorrow, came there splendour,
You still were mine, and I yours only:
Then on my breast lay down your head,
Triumphant in its dear surrender:
One were we then: though one, not lonely.

Oh, is it you are dead, or I?
Both! both dead, since we are asunder:
You, sleeping: I, for ever walking
Through the dark valley, hard and dry.
At times I hear the mourning thunder:
And voices, in the shadows, talking.

Dear, are there dreams among the dead:
Or is it all a perfect slumber?

All up and down in shadow-town
The shadow children go;
In every street you're sure to meet
Them running to and fro.

They move around without a sound,
They play at hide-and-seek,
But no one yet that I have met
Has ever heard them speak.

Beneath the tree you often see
Them dancing in and out,
And in the sun there 's always one
To follow you about.

Go where you will, he follows still,
Or sometimes runs before,
And, home at last, you 'll find him fast
Beside you at the door.

All under the leaves, the leaves of life,

I met with virgins seven,
And one of them was Mary mild,
Our Lord's mother from heaven.

"Oh what are you seeking, you seven fair maids,
All under the leaves of life?
Come tell, come tell me what seek you
All under the leaves of life?'

"We're seeking for no leaves, Thomas,
But for a friend of thine;
We're seeking for sweet Jesus Christ,
To be our guide and thine.'

"Go you down, go you down to yonder town,
And sit in the gallery;
And there you'll find sweet Jesus Christ,

ALL travail of high thought,
All secrets vainly sought,
All struggles for right, heroic, perpetually fought.

Faint gleams of purer fire,
Conquests of gross desire,
Whereby the fettered soul ascends continually higher.

Pure cares for love or friend
Which ever upward tend,
Too deep and heavenward and true to have on earth their end.

Vile hearts malign and fell,
Lives which no tongue may tell,
So dark and dread and shameful that they breathe a present hell.

ALL TO MYSELF I find the way
Back to each golden yesterday,
Faring in fancy until I stand
Clasping your ready, friendly hand;
The picture seems half true, half dream,
And I keep its color and its gleam
All to myself.

All to myself I hum again
Fragments of some old-time refrain,
Something that comes at fancy's choice,
And I hear the cadence of your voice:
Sometimes 'tis dim, sometimes 'tis clear,
But I keep the music that I hear
All to myself.

All to myself I hold and know
All of the days of long ago—

All through the golden weather
— Until the autumn fell,
Our lives went by together
— So wildly and so well.

But autumn's wind uncloses
— The heart of all your flowers;
I think, as with the roses,
— So hath it been with ours.

Like some divided river
— Your ways and mine will be,
To drift apart for ever,
— For ever till the sea.

And yet for one word spoken,
— One whisper of regret,
The dream had not been broken,
— And love were with us yet.