A Wall Street

I don't know what a wall street is.

I think that something happens there
of which we're mostly unaware;
I do know what just isn't fair:
for all their shares they cannot share,

and you know what the proverb says,

"A fool and his money are soon...

              bailed out?

I don't know what a wall street is.

Monotony

Is tedium as tiring as they say?
Some people want it every single day.
Could boredom be the modern human's sin?

Is leisure as destructive as I see?
Some harder-working people might agree...
But who can fight this apathy and win?

To get a job is more than money's love,
Since work itself can never be enough,
We need to work and rest and love within.

Paul Laurence Dunbar:

Paul Laurence Dunbar

          For a biography of this great black American poet, you may turn to this website.

          Dunbar shows himself equal to the task of English poetry in his fluid adaptation and alteration of traditional meters.  His odes have the effect of dancing with frequent enjambment that shows no awkwardness.

         And this skill he takes into the colloquial language of his fellow African-Americans, lifting this dialect to stand and rival, even surpass, what was then reckoned proper English. 

         Besides the poem I offer below, I recommend the following poems for an introduction to Dunbar's pleasant genius:

An Ante-Bellum Sermon   The Paradox    We Wear the Mask 

A SONG is but a little thing,
And yet what joy it is to sing!
In hours of toil it gives me zest,

And when at eve I long for rest;

When cows come home along the bars,

          And in the fold I hear the bell,

As Night, the shepherd, herds his stars,

          I sing my song, and all is well.

There are no ears to hear my lays,

No lips to lift a word of praise;

But still, with faith unfaltering,

I live and laugh and love and sing.

What matters yon unheeding throng?

          They cannot feel my spirit's spell,

Since life is sweet and love is long,

           I sing my song, and all is well.

My days are never days of ease;

I till my ground and prune my trees.

When ripened gold is all the plain,

I put my sickle to the grain.

I labor hard, and toil and sweat,

          While others dream within the dell;

But even while my brow is wet,

          I sing my song, and all is well.

Sometimes the sun, unkindly hot,

My garden makes a desert spot;

Sometimes a blight upon the tree

Takes all my fruit away from me;

And then with throes of bitter pain

          Rebellious passions rise and swell;

But -- life is more than fruit or grain,

          And so I sing, and all is well.