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.