Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/138

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Through chink and cranny, piercing the midnight.The dry husks rattle, and his shuffling feetKeep time to what he sings—an elusive tune,Husky and monotonous and sweet,Scarce audible, so softly does he croonTo keep away the evil eye:         Everybody         Who is livin'         Got to die.Across the evening fields the setting sunRichly intones toil done.The home-bound negroes idle in the lanes,Gossiping as they go; coarse laughter fallsOn the resonant air; from a far field cat-callsFloat over, and a banjo's strains.Shucking corn in the darkness, Scipio in replySits and sings his mournful, husky stave:       Wid a silver spade       You kin dig my grave;       Everybody       Who is livin'       Got to die.
Poetry, A Magazine of VerseJosephine Pinckney


IN THE DELTA
The river country's wide and flat And blurred ash-blue with sun,And there all work is dreams come true, All dreams are work begun.
The silted river made for us The black and mellow soilAnd taught us as we conquered him Courage and faith and toil.

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