by Fenton Johnson
In my sorrows, in my joys,
In my evening, in my morn,
Beulah shall be like the star
That outvied the vaunting moon.
And my weary soul shall drink
Succor! — Succor from her eyes, —
Eyes that tell a strange old tale;
And my arms shall hold her form, —
Delicate as some sweet nymph,
Strayed from out her woodland home.
And when Wyrd shall mold to ash
This poor shell in which I dwell,
We shall rest, one dust in one.
Last updated September 21, 2022