To E. M. E.

You see me smile: but what is it? A sweetened pain—a laughin’ fit— A little honeyed dart, That, passing, stabs my heart, Yet mek me glad a bit. You see me dance: ‘twas but my feet, You should have heard my heart a beat! For none o’ it was real: It be’n a priceless sale Of bitter for a sweet. Dis laughin’ face!—’tis full o’ joy Because it is a baby’s toy; But when de child is gone An’ the darkness comes on, ’Twill be anudder boy. You hear me sing: what is de tune? De song of one that’s dyin’ soon, A whirlin’, tossin’ life Flung on de wul’ of strife; I call it “debil’s boon.” De many pleasures? Wha’s de gain? I’ll tell you of a grindin’ pain Dat companies de birt’, An’ runs wid vengeance mirt’ De life, till it is slain. Why do I sleep? My eyes know why, Same how a life knows why it die: Dey sleep on in distress, Knowin’ not why dey res’, But feelin’ why dey cry. I’m hungry now, so eat once mo’, E’en though I’ll soon be like befo’; For, as in udder t’ings, De seemin’ pleasure clings, De cravin’ has no cure. It always seem so strange to me, Dat you can satisfy to be A life whose daily food Is pain: de only good, Deat’ dat will set it free.