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James Weldon Johnson, ed. (1871–1938). The Book of American Negro Poetry. 1922.

Ironic: LL.D.

THERE are no hollows any more

Between the mountains; the prairie floor

Is like a curtain with the drape

Of the winds’ invisible shape;

And nowhere seen and nowhere heard

The sea’s quiet as a sleeping bird.

Now we’re traveling, what holds back

Arrival, in the very track

Where the urge put forth; so we stay

And move a thousand miles a day.

Time’s a Fancy ringing bells

Whose meaning, charlatan history, tells!