Monday, 2 July 2012

Monday; Dear P.L. Dunbar;

Perfumed Delight from my garden;


  Thou art the soul of a summer's day,
  Thou art the breath of the rose.
      But the summer is fled
      And the rose is dead
  Where are they gone, who knows, who knows?

  Thou art the blood of my heart o' hearts,
  Thou art my soul's repose,
      But my heart grows numb
      And my soul is dumb
  Where art thou, love, who knows, who knows?

  Thou art the hope of my after years--
  Sun for my winter snows
      But the years go by
      'Neath a clouded sky.
  Where shall we meet, who knows, Who knows?

P.L Dunbar

Many poems of Paul have a tinge of nostalgia, sadness , but still  uplifting kind  thoughts. He died young, at 33 Years of Tuberculosis.  He had not an easy life, as the white society was so blatantly racist. He had quite a struggle to be recognized .  Now his poetry is up there with the best, loved and honoured.

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