by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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?
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?
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?