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Southern Mansion

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Written by Arna Bontemps

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 Poplars are standing there still as death
And ghosts of dead men
Meet their ladies walking
Two by two beneath the shade
And standing on the marble steps.
There is a sound of music echoing Through the open door And in the field there is Another sound tinkling in the cotton: Chains of bondmen dragging on the ground.
The years go back with an iron clank, A hand is on the gate, A dry leaf trembles on the wall.
Ghosts are walking.
They have broken roses down And poplars stand there still as death.


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