Poplars are standing there still as death
and ghost of dead men
meet their ladies walking
two by two beneath the shade
and standing on the marble steps.
There is a sound of music echoing
through the open door
and in the field there is
another sound tinkling in the cotton:
chains of bondmen dragging on the ground.
The years go back with an iron clank,
a hand is on the gate,
a dry leaf trembles on the wall.
Ghost are walking.
They have broken roses down
and poplars stand there still as death….
Copyright 1963, by Arna Bontemps.
I have sown beside all waters in my day.
I planted deep, within my heart the fear That wind or fowl would take the grain away.
