The glory of the day was in her confront,The beauty of the night remained in her eyes.And over all her loveliness, the graceOf Morning blushing in the early skies.

You are watching: The glory of the day was in her face

And in her voice, the calling of the dove;Like music of a sweet, melodious component.And in her smile, the breaking light of love;And all the gentle virtues in her heart.

And currently the glorious day, the beauteous night,The birds that signal to their mates at dawn,To my dull ears, to my tear-blinded sightAre one via all the dead, because she is gone.


James Weldon Johnkid, born in Florida in 1871,was a national organizer for the NAACP and an writer of poeattempt and also nonfiction. Perhaps ideal well-known for the song "Lift Eexceptionally Voice and SIng," he likewise created numerous poeattempt collections and novels, regularly exploring racial identification and also the Afrihave the right to American folk tradition.

“The Glory of the Day Was in Her Face” was publiburned in Fifty Years & Other Poems (The Cornhill Company kind of, 1917). 

(A Prayer from God"s Trombones)

O Lord, we come this morningKnee-bowed and body-bentBefore Thy throne of grace.O Lord—this morning—Bow our hearts beneath our knees,And our knees in some lonesome valley.We come this morning—Like empty pitchers to a full fountain,With no merits of our very own.O Lord—open up up a home window of heaven,And lean out much over the battlements of glory,And listen this morning.Lord, have mercy on proud and dying sinners—Sinners hanging over the mouth of hell,Who seem to love their distance well.Lord—ride by this morning—Mount Your milk-white equine,And ride-a this morning—And in Your ride, ride by old hell,Ride by the dingy gateways of hell,And stop negative sinners in their headlengthy plunge.And now, O Lord, this guy of God,Who breaks the bcheck out of life this morning—Shadow him in the hollow of Thy hand,And save him out of the gunswarm of the evil one.Take him, Lord—this morning—Wash him through hyssop inside and also out,Hang him up and also drain him dry of sin.Pin his ear to the wisdom-write-up,And make his words sledge hammers of truth—Beating on the iron heart of sin.Lord God, this morning—Put his eye to the telescope of eternity,And let him look upon the paper walls of time.Lord, turpentine his creativity,Put perpetual movement in his arms,Fill him full of the dynamite of Thy power,Anoint him everywhere via the oil of Thy salvation,And set his tongue on fire.And now, O Lord—When I"ve done drunk my last cup of sorrow—When I"ve been referred to as everything yet a son of God—When I"m done traveling up the stormy side of the mountain—O—Mary"s Baby—When I begin down the steep and slippery actions of death—When this old human being starts to rock beneath my feet—Lower me to my dusty grave in peaceTo wait for that excellent gittin"-up morning—Aguys.

Sometimes the mist overhangs my route,And blackening clouds about me cling;But, oh, I have a magic wayTo turn the gloom to cheerful day— I softly sing.

And if the method grows darker still,Shadowed by Sorrow’s somber wing,With glad defiance in my throat,I pierce the darkness through a note, And sing, and sing.

I brood not over the damaged previous,Nor dread whatever before time may bring;No nights are dark, no days are long,While in my heart tright here swells a song, And I deserve to sing.

I dreamed that I was a roseThat flourished beside a lonely method,Close by a path none ever determined,And there I lingered day by day.Beneath the sunshine and also the show’rI flourished and also waited tright here acomponent,Gathering perfume hour by hour,And storing it within my heart, Yet, never before kbrand-new,Just why I waited there and also thrived.

I dreamed that you were a beeThat sooner or later gaily flew alengthy,You came across the hedge to me,And sang a soft, love-burdened song.You brumelted my petals via a kiss,I woke to gladness with a begin,And gave in approximately you in blissThe treasured fragrance of my heart; And then I knewThat I had actually waited there for you.

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James Weldon Johnson


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I Kcurrently My Soul

I plucked my spirit out of its key place,And held it to the mirror of my eye,To watch it favor a star versus the sky,A twitching body quivering in space,A spark of passion shining on my face.And I explored it to recognize whyThis awful essential to my infinityConspires to rob me of sweet joy and grace.And if the authorize may not be totally check out,If I have the right to comprehfinish yet not manage,I need not gimpend my days with futile dcheck out,Due to the fact that I check out a component and also not the whole.Contemplating the stvariety, I’m comfortedBy this narcotic thought: I recognize my spirit.