Paul Laurence Dunbar (June 27, 1872 – February 9, 1906) was an American poet, novelist, and short story writer. Born to parents who had been enslaved in Kentucky before the American Civil War, Dunbar began writing stories and verse when he was a child. He published his first poems at the age of 16 in a Dayton newspaper, and served as president of his high school’s literary society.

Much of Dunbar’s more popular work in his lifetime was written in the “Negro dialect” associated with the antebellum South. Dunbar also wrote in conventional English in other poetry and novels and is considered the first important African American sonnet writer.

A LOVE LETTER
Paul Laurence Dunbar

OH, I des received a letter f’om de sweetest little gal;
Oh, my; oh, my.
She’s my lovely little sweetheart an’ her name is Sal:
Oh, my; oh, my.
She writes me dat she loves me an’ she loves me true,
She wonders ef I’ll tell huh dat I loves huh, too;
An’ my heaht’s so full o’ music dat I do’ know what to do;
Oh, my; oh, my.
I got a man to read it an’ he read it fine;
Oh, my; oh, my.
Dey ain’ no use denying dat her love is mine;
Oh, my; oh, my.
But hyeah’s de t’ing dat’s puttin’ me in such a awful plight,
I t’ink of huh at mornin’ an’ I dream of huh at night;
But how’s I gwine to cou’t huh w’en I do’ know how to write?
Oh, my; oh, my.
My heaht is bubblin’ ovah wid de t’ings I want to say;
Oh, my; oh, my.
An’ dey’s lots of folks to copy what I tell ’em fu’ de pay;
Oh, my; oh, my.
But dey’s t’ings dat I’s a-t’inkin’ dat is only fu’ huh ears,
An’ I couldn’t lu’n to write ’em ef I took a dozen years;
So to go down daih an’ tell huh is de only way, it ‘pears;
Oh, my; oh, my.

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THE CORN-STALK FIDDLE
Paul Laurence Dunbar

When the corn’s all cut and the bright stalks shine
   Like the burnished spears of a field of gold;
When the field-mice rich on the nubbins dine,
   And the frost comes white and the wind blows cold;
Then its heigho fellows and hi-diddle-diddle,
For the time is ripe for the corn-stalk fiddle.
 
And you take a stalk that is straight and long,
   With an expert eye to its worthy points,
And you think of the bubbling strains of song
   That are bound between its pithy joints—
Then you cut out strings, with a bridge in the middle,
With a corn-stalk bow for a corn-stalk fiddle.
 
Then the strains that grow as you draw the bow
   O’er the yielding strings with a practiced hand!
And the music’s flow never loud but low
   Is the concert note of a fairy band.
Oh, your dainty songs are a misty riddle
To the simple sweets of the corn-stalk fiddle.
 
When the eve comes on and our work is done
   And the sun drops down with a tender glance,
With their hearts all prime for the harmless fun,
   Come the neighbor girls for the evening’s dance,
And they wait for the well-known twist and twiddle,
More time than tune—from the corn-stalk fiddle.
 
Then brother Jabez takes the bow,
   While Ned stands off with Susan Bland,
Then Henry stops by Milly Snow
   And John takes Nellie Jones’s hand,
While I pair off with Mandy Biddle,
And scrape, scrape, scrape goes the corn-stalk fiddle.
 
“Salute your partners,” comes the call,
   “All join hands and circle round,”
“Grand train back,” and “Balance all,”
   Footsteps lightly spurn the ground,
“Take your lady and balance down the middle”
To the merry strains of the corn-stalk fiddle.
 
So the night goes on and the dance is o’er,
   And the merry girls are homeward gone,   
But I see it all in my sleep once more,
   And I dream till the very break of dawn
Of an impish dance on a red-hot griddle
To the screech and scrape of a corn-stalk fiddle.
 
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THE HAUNTED OAK

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Pray why are you so bare, so bare,
   Oh, bough of the old oak-tree;
And why, when I go through the shade you throw,
   Runs a shudder over me?
 
My leaves were green as the best, I trow,
   And sap ran free in my veins,
But I saw in the moonlight dim and weird
   A guiltless victim’s pains.
 
I bent me down to hear his sigh;
   I shook with his gurgling moan,
And I trembled sore when they rode away,
   And left him here alone.
 
They’d charged him with the old, old crime,
   And set him fast in jail:
Oh, why does the dog howl all night long,
   And why does the night wind wail?
 
He prayed his prayer and he swore his oath,
   And he raised his hand to the sky;
But the beat of hoofs smote on his ear,
   And the steady tread drew nigh.
 
Who is it rides by night, by night,
   Over the moonlit road?
And what is the spur that keeps the pace,
   What is the galling goad?
 
And now they beat at the prison door,
   “Ho, keeper, do not stay!
We are friends of him whom you hold within,
   And we fain would take him away
 
“From those who ride fast on our heels
   With mind to do him wrong;
They have no care for his innocence,
   And the rope they bear is long.”
 
They have fooled the jailer with lying words,
   They have fooled the man with lies;
The bolts unbar, the locks are drawn,
   And the great door open flies.
 
Now they have taken him from the jail,
   And hard and fast they ride,
And the leader laughs low down in his throat,
   As they halt my trunk beside.
 
Oh, the judge, he wore a mask of black,
   And the doctor one of white,
And the minister, with his oldest son,
   Was curiously bedight.
 
Oh, foolish man, why weep you now?
   ‘Tis but a little space,
And the time will come when these shall dread
   The mem’ry of your face.
 
I feel the rope against my bark,
   And the weight of him in my grain,
I feel in the throe of his final woe
   The touch of my own last pain.
 
And never more shall leaves come forth
   On the bough that bears the ban;
I am burned with dread, I am dried and dead,
   From the curse of a guiltless man.
 
And ever the judge rides by, rides by,
   And goes to hunt the deer,
And ever another rides his soul
   In the guise of a mortal fear.
 
And ever the man he rides me hard,
   And never a night stays he;
For I feel his curse as a haunted bough,
   On the trunk of a haunted tree.
 
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KINDNESS
Paul Laurence Dunbar
 

Was he not kind to you, this dead old Year?
Did he not give enough of earthly store?
Enough of laughter and good cheer?
It is not well to hate him for the pain
He brought you, and the sorrows manifold.

To pardon him these hurts still I am fain,
For in the panting period of his reign,
He brought me new wounds,
But he healed the old.

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SONG (Wintah, summah, snow er shine)

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Wintah, summah, snow er shine,
Hit’s all de same to me,
Ef only I kin call you mine,
An’ keep you by my knee.
 
Ha’dship, frolic, grief er caih,
Content by night an’ day,
Ef only I kin see you whaih
You wait beside de way.
 
Livin’, dyin’, smiles er teahs,
My soul will still be free,
Ef only thoo de comin’ yeahs
You walk de worl’ wid me.
 
Bird-song, breeze-wail, chune er moan,
What puny t’ings dey’ll be,
Ef w’en I’s seemin’ all erlone,
I knows yo’ hea’t’s wid me.