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Paul Laurence Dunbar, born in 1872 and the author of countless collections of poeattempt and pincreased, wasone of the initially Afrideserve to Amerihave the right to to get national recognition.

Air a-gittin" cool an" coolah, Frost a-comin" in de night, Hicka" nuts an" wa"nuts fallin", Posamount keepin" out o" sight. Tu"crucial struttin" in de ba"nya"d, Nary a action so proud ez his; Keep on struttin", Mistah Tu"essential, Yo" do" recognize whut time it is. Cidah press commence a-squeakin" Eatin" apples sto"ed away, Chillun swa"min" "roun" lak ho"nets, Huntin" aigs ermung de hay. Mistah Tu"vital keep on gobblin" At de geese a-flyin" souf, Oomph! dat bird do" recognize whut"s comin"; Ef he did he"d shet his mouf. Pumpkin gittin" excellent an" yallah Mek me open up up my eyes; Seems lak it"s a-lookin" at me Jes" a-la"in" dah sayin" "Pies." Tu"vital gobbler gwine "roun" blowin", Gwine "roun" gibbin" sass an" slack; Keep on talkin", Mistah Tu"essential, You ain"t seed no almanac. Fa"mer walkin" th"oo de ba"nya"d Seein" just how things is comin" on, Sees ef all de fowls is fatt"nin" — Good times comin" sho"s you bo"n. Hyeahs dat tu"vital gobbler braggin", Den his confront break in a smile — Nebbah min", you sassy rascal, He"s gwine nab you atter while. Choppin" suet in de kitchen, Stonin" raisins in de hall, Beef a-cookin" fu" de mince meat, Spices groun" — I smell "em all. Look hyeah, Tu"vital, speak dat gobblin", You ain" luned de sense ob feah, You ol" fool, yo" naik"s in dangah, Do" you understand Thanksgibbin"s hyeah?

Oh, summer has clothed the earthIn a cloak from the loom of the sun!And a mantle, also, of the skies" soft blue,And a belt wbelow the rivers run.And currently for the kiss of the wind,And the touch of the air"s soft hands,With the remainder from strife and the warmth of life,With the flexibility of lakes and lands.I envy the farmer"s boyWho sings as he adheres to the plow;While the shining green of the young knives leanTo the breezes that cool his brow.He sings to the dewy morn,No thought of another"s ear;But the song he sings is a chant for kingsAnd the whole wide civilization to hear.He sings of the joys of life,Of the pleasures of job-related and remainder,From an o"erfull heart, without aim or art;"T is a song of the merriest.O ye who toil in the tvery own,And ye that moil in the mart,Hear the artmuch less song, and your confidence made strongShall rebrand-new your joy of heart.Oh, poor were the worth of the worldIf never a song were heard,—If the sting of grief had actually no relief,And never a heart were stirred.So, lengthy as the streams run down,And as lengthy as the robins trill,Let us taunt old Care through a merry air,And sing in the confront of ill.

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Out in the sky the great dark clouds are massing; I look much out into the pregnant night,Wright here I can hear a solemn booming gun And capture the gleaming of a random light,That tells me that the ship I seek is passing, passing.My tearful eyes my soul"s deep hurt are glassing; For I would hail and also examine that ship of ships.I stretch my hands imploring, cry aloud, My voice falls dead a foot from mine very own lips,And however its gorganize doth reach that vessel, passing, passing.O Planet, O Sky, O Ocean, both surpassing, O heart of mine, O soul that dreads the dark!Is tright here no hope for me? Is there no way That I may sight and examine that speeding barkWhich out of sight and sound is passing, passing?