CLARISSA SCOTT DELANY
Reading edition
“I was born at Tuskegee Institute, Alabama, in the Twentieth Century, and spent my early years in what is known as the ‘Black Belt.’ This was followed by seven years in New England (1916-1923), three at Bradford Academy, and four at Wellesley College, where my southern blood became tinged with something of the austerity of that section. Three years of teaching in the Dunbar High School of Washington, D. C., convinced me that though the children were interesting, teaching was not my metier. In the fall of 1926 I was married. Since completing a study of Delinquency and Neglect among Negro children in New York City, my career has been that of a wife, and as careers go, that is an interesting and absorbing one.”
JOY
Joy shakes me like the wind that lifts a sail, Like the roistering wind That laughs through stalwart pines. It floods me like the sun On rain-drenched trees That flash with silver and green. I abandon myself to joy— I laugh—I sing. Too long have I walked a desolate way, Too long stumbled down a maze Bewildered.
SOLACE
My window opens out into the trees And in that small space Of branches and of sky I see the seasons pass Behold the tender green Give way to darker heavier leaves. The glory of the autumn comes When steeped in mellow sunlight The fragile, golden leaves Against a clear blue sky Linger in the magic of the afternoon And then reluctantly break off And filter down to pave A street with gold. Then bare, gray branches Lift themselves against the Cold December sky Sometimes weaving a web Across the rose and dusk of late sunset Sometimes against a frail new moon And one bright star riding A sky of that dark, living blue Which comes before the heaviness Of night descends, or the stars Have powdered the heavens. Winds beat against these trees; The cold, but gentle rain of spring Touches them lightly The summer torrents strive To lash them into a fury And seek to break them— But they stand. My life is fevered And a restlessness at times An agony—again a vague And baffling discontent Possesses me. I am thankful for my bit of sky And trees, and for the shifting Pageant of the seasons. Such beauty lays upon the heart A quiet. Such eternal change and permanence Take meaning from all turmoil And leave serenity Which knows no pain.
INTERIM
The night was made for rest and sleep, For winds that softly sigh; It was not made for grief and tears; So then why do I cry? The wind that blows through leafy trees Is soft and warm and sweet; For me the night is a gracious cloak To hide my soul’s defeat. Just one dark hour of shaken depths, Of bitter black despair— Another day will find me brave, And not afraid to dare.
THE MASK
So detached and cool she is No motion e’er betrays The secret life within her soul, The anguish of her days. She seems to look upon the world With cold ironic eyes, To spurn emotion’s fevered sway, To scoff at tears and sighs. But once a woman with a child Passed by her on the street, And once she heard from casual lips A man’s name, bitter-sweet. Such baffled yearning in her eyes, Such pain upon her face! I turned aside until the mask Was slipped once more in place.