GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON
Reading edition
Many years ago a little yellow girl in Atlanta, Georgia, came across a poem in a current paper that told of a rose struggling to bloom in a window in New York City. A child tended this flower and her whole life was wrapt up in its fate. This poem was written by William Stanley Braithwaite, years before the world knew how marvellous was his mind. Some one told the reader of these lines that the writer was colored and straightway she began to walk upward toward him.
This little girl grew up, went to Atlanta University, Oberlin Conservatory, taught school, then married Henry Lincoln Johnson, always looking forward toward the light of the poet Braithwaite.
Then her husband was appointed Recorder of Deeds under Taft and she was moved by circumstances to the capital—Washington.
Dean Kelly Miller at Howard University saw some of her poetic efforts and was pleased. Stanley Braithwaite was his friend and he directed her to send something to him at Boston. She did so, and then began a quickening and a realization that she could do!
Following this happy event, Dr. W. E. B. Du Bois of the Crisis brought out two poems from her pen that awakened the interest of readers.
At this time Jessie Fauset, the novelist, was teaching French in Washington and very generously helped her to gather together material for her first book The Heart of A Woman with an introduction by William Stanley Braithwaite. This was followed by Bronze, a book of color with an introduction by W. E. B. Du Bois. Her third attempt in poetry was An Autumn Love Cycle with an introduction by Alain Locke, the editor of The New Negro.
At present she is connected with the Department of Labor at Washington, as Commissioner of Conciliation. At her home there you may find the young writers gathered together almost any Saturday night exchanging ideas, reciting new poems or discussing plans for new creations.
SERVICE
When we count out our gold at the end of the day, And have filtered the dross that has cumbered the way, Oh, what were the hold of our treasury then Save the love we have shown to the children of men?
HOPE
Frail children of sorrow, dethroned by a hue, The shadows are flecked by the rose sifting through, The world has its motion, all things pass away, No night is omnipotent, there must be day. The oak tarries long in the depth of the seed, But swift is the season of nettle and weed, Abide yet awhile in the mellowing shade, And rise with the hour for which you were made. The cycle of seasons, the tidals of man Revolve in the orb of an infinite plan, We move to the rhythm of ages long done, And each has his hour—to dwell in the sun!
THE SUPPLIANT
Long have I beat with timid hands upon life’s leaden door, Praying the patient, futile prayer my fathers prayed before, Yet I remain without the close, unheeded and unheard, And never to my listening ear is borne the waited word. Soft o’er the threshold of the years there comes this counsel cool: The strong demand, contend, prevail; the beggar is a fool!
LITTLE SON
The very acme of my woe, The pivot of my pride, My consolation, and my hope Deferred, but not denied. The substance of my every dream, The riddle of my plight, The very world epitomized In turmoil and delight.
OLD BLACK MEN
They have dreamed as young men dream Of glory, love and power; They have hoped as youth will hope Of life’s sun-minted hour. They have seen as others saw Their bubbles burst in air, And they have learned to live it down As though they did not care.
LETHE
I do not ask for love, ah! no, Nor friendship’s happiness, These were relinquished long ago; I search for something less. I seek a little tranquil bark In which to drift at ease Awhile, and then quite silently To sink in quiet seas.
PROVING
Were you a leper bathed in wounds And by the world denied; I’d share your fatal exile As a privilege and pride. You are to me the sun, the moon, The starlight of my soul, The sounding motif of my heart, The impetus and goal!
I WANT TO DIE WHILE YOU LOVE ME
I want to die while you love me, While yet you hold me fair, While laughter lies upon my lips And lights are in my hair. I want to die while you love me And bear to that still bed Your kisses turbulent, unspent To warm me when I’m dead. I want to die while you love me; Oh, who would care to live Till love has nothing more to ask And nothing more to give? I want to die while you love me, And never, never see The glory of this perfect day Grow dim, or cease to be!
RECESSIONAL
Consider me a memory, a dream that passed away; Or yet a flower that has blown and shattered in a day; For passion sleeps alas and keeps no vigil with the years And wakens to no conjuring of orisons or tears. Consider me a melody that served its simple turn, Or but the residue of fire that settles in the urn, For love defies pure reasoning and undeterred flows Within, without, the vassal heart—its reasoning who knows?
MY LITTLE DREAMS
I’m folding up my little dreams Within my heart tonight, And praying I may soon forget The torture of their sight. For time’s deft fingers scroll my brow With fell relentless art— I’m folding up my little dreams Tonight, within my heart.
WHAT NEED HAVE I FOR MEMORY?
What need have I for memory, When not a single flower Has bloomed within life’s desert For me, one little hour? What need have I for memory Whose burning eyes have met The corse of unborn happiness Winding the trail regret?
WHEN I AM DEAD
When I am dead, withhold, I pray, your blooming legacy; Beneath the willows did I bide, and they should cover me; I longed for light and fragrance, and I sought them far and near, O, it would grieve me utterly, to find them on my bier!
THE DREAMS OF THE DREAMER
The dreams of the dreamer Are life-drops that pass The break in the heart To the soul’s hour-glass. The songs of the singer Are tones that repeat The cry of the heart Till it ceases to beat.
THE HEART OF A WOMAN
The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn, As a lone bird, soft winging, so restlessly on, Afar o’er life’s turrets and vales does it roam In the wake of those echoes the heart calls home. The heart of a woman falls back with the night, And enters some alien cage in its plight, And tries to forget it has dreamed of the stars While it breaks, breaks, breaks on the sheltering bars.