Monday; Dear P.L. Dunbar;

Perfumed Delight from my garden;

A SONG

  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.