Josephine Pinckney

THE SUN, in wanton pride,

Drenches the country-side

With spilt gold from his old autumnal store.

But Scipio sits within the barn’s thick gloom,

The merest crack of light coming in the door—

Sits and husks the corn long after working hours.

Vainly for him the autumn bloom

Is on the flowers.

The inside of the barn is velvet black

Except where a gold thread runs along a crack;

And the inquisitive sun thrusts points of light

Through chink and cranny, piercing the midnight.

The dry husks rattle, and his shuffling feet

Keep time to what he sings—an elusive tune,

Husky and monotonous and sweet,

Scarce audible, so softly does he croon

To keep away the evil eye:

Everybody

Who is livin’

Got to die.

Across the evening fields the setting sun

Richly intones toil done.

The home-bound negroes idle in the lanes,

Gossiping as they go; coarse laughter falls

On the resonant air; from a far field cat-calls

Float over, and a banjo’s strains.

Shucking corn in the darkness, Scipio in reply

Sits and sings his mournful, husky stave:

Wid a silver spade

You kin dig my grave;

Everybody

Who is livin’

Got to die.