Additional Poems By Casely-Hayford Additional Poems By Casely-Hayford Essay, Research Paper Dawn Dawn for the rich, the artistic and the wise, Is beauty splashed on canvas of the skies, The brushes being the clouds that float the blue, Dipped in the breeze for paint, and washed by dew. But dawn to those who bathe the night in tears, Squeeze sustenance from hard unyielding years, Is full of strange imaginings and fears. The dawn renews the terror of the day Where harassing uncertainties hold sway; And pain held in surcease through brief hours of rest Roars up its head in its unceasing quest To wear out body, brain and mind and soul Till death is a resolve, and death a goal. For those life holds no beauty, dawn no light, For day is hopeless, dawn is struck with blight.
Rainy Season Love Song Out of the tense awed darkness, my Frangepani comes: Whilst the blades of Heaven flash round her, and the roll of thunder drums, My young heart leaps and dances, with exquisite joy and pain, As, storms within and storms without, I meet my love in the rain. “The rain is in love with you darling; it’s kissing you everywhere, Rain pattering over your small brown feet, rain in your curly hair; Rain in the vale that your twin breasts make, as in delicate mounds they rise; I hope there is rain in your heart, Frangepani, as rain half fills your eyes.” Into my hands she cometh, and the lightning of my desire Flashes and leaps about her, more subtle than Heaven’s fire; “The lightning’s in love with you darling; it is loving you so much That its warm electricity in you pulses wherever I may touch. When I kiss your lips and your eyes, and your hands like twin flowers apart, I know there is lightning, Frangepani, deep in the depths of your heart.” The thunder rumbles about us, and I feel its triumphant note As your warm arms steal around me, and I kiss your dusky throat; “The thunder’s in love with you darling; it hides its power in your breast, And I feel it stealing o’er me as I lie in your arms at rest. I sometimes wonder, beloved, when I drink from life’s proffered bowl, Whether there’s thunder hidden in the innermost parts of your soul.” Out of my arms she stealth, and I am left alone with the night, Void of all sounds save peace, the first faint glimmer of light. Into some quiet, hushed stillness my Frangepani goes. Is there peace within the peace without? Only the darkness knows.
The Essay on The Rain Came Analysis
A village chief, Labong’o, returns from a council to be greeted by his daughter Oganda, who asks for news about when it will rain. Labong’o is cryptically speechless. Notably, with Ogot’s immediate presentation of this critical concern about whether or not rain will come, the reader may at once expect that this concern will be resolved favorably; the title–and there is no ...
From Caroling Dusk, ed. Count? e Cullen (1927) My Lips My lips were buds of innocence until you came one day And drew a fountain from my heart and careless went your way, My lips were hungry, eager flowers curved in ecstatic bliss To gather the soft sweetness of my next lover’s kiss. My lips were luscious ripeness of a crushed and poisoned vine When you bent your lips upon me and my soft ones clung to thine My lips are withering fading flowers, full weary unto death Dew without moisture is thy kiss; wind without heat thy breath. A fugitive tear wells up from my eyes and is secretly, silently shed. Are lips that once were innocent, so withered, so parched, so dead? Realisation I did not know that you had the power to hurt me, I think I must have bequeathed it to you unknowingly One starlit night when I read the secret in your eyes. Did you read mine? I know now that you did.
Use your power gently, beloved, for in your hands it becomes a merciless whip. I did not know that you had the power to make me happy, I think I must have bequeathed it to you unconsciously In the warm darkness when your lips met mine and pressed their weight of love on them. Did your soul leap to meet mine? I know now that it did. Use your power gently, beloved, lest in your hands it grows too great for me.
The Cart-Horse When blue becomes intense and disks to grey, Grey unto darkness shrouding the worn day, I like to lie awake and gaze upon the cloudless sky And hear the song of the cart-wheels as the old cart-horse goes by. The squeaking boards, The rusty chains, The clank of steel and brass, The intermittent hoof-beats as the old cart-horse goes past. When darkness turns to grey again and grey to light, When little wrens awake prepared for flight, I like to lie awake with the warm sun streaming in, And try to understand the tune the good old cart-wheels sing. The squeaking boards, The rusty chains, The clank of steel and brass; Oh, I love to hear the music of the cart- horse going past! The Chief of Kitchom Down to the Government Wharf The Chief of Kitchom came, Direct descendant of the line That reigns in Kitchom’s name. His face was like a hawk, His eyes were bright and keen, His mouth, a twist of irony, His smile, swift cut and clean. His pride sat on his brow Like broad phylactery, His royalty like bands of steel Girt round his dignity.
The Term Paper on Account For Stalin’s Rise To Power In The Period 1922 To 1929
Stalin’s ascent to the leadership of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) was neither easy nor inevitable. Following the incapacitation and subsequent death of Vladimir Lenin, there were many legitimate claimants to this leadership: Grigory Zinoviev, Lev Kamenev, Nikolai Bukharin and, particularly, Leon Trotsky, Lenin’s right-hand man and heir apparent. Among such company ...
His gown was gara blue, His red fez bound with white; Nested each charm and prayer encased In leather from our sight. He looked a tower of strength, His muscles easy played, Rippled beneath his jet black skin With every step he essayed. His fingers gleamed with rings, His feet were sandal-shod, Girdles and chains hung round his neck, His strong hand held a sword. Thus Kitchom’s naked blade Gleamed in the setting sun, And Kitchom’s drums with throbbing beats Mingled their tones as one.
Thirty slim, dark brown girls stepped to the water’s side, ‘ Behold the great-chief’s wives,’ they said, For each had been a bride. A great crowd pressed about Whilst from the boat’s shaped stern, Soft music poured from balances As water from an urn. Put out, away to the west, We breast the open main; The Chief of Kitchom has been from home And now returns again. The boat is a tiny speck, We stand on the quay alone; While the sun breaks its red aureole O’er the Chief that is going home [gara = indigo dye].
