SOUL-TROUBLED at the febrile ways of breath,
Her timid breast shot through with faint alarm,
“Yes, I’m a stranger here,” she said to Death,
“It’s kind of you to let me take your arm.”
For Paul Laurence Dunbar
BORN of the sorrowful of heart,
Mirth was a crown upon his head;
Pride kept his twisted lips apart
In jest, to hide a heart that bled.