The Island a poem by Josephine Pinckney
Here, a man still walks after the plow he drives.
Sons these of busier men who sowed success
And reaped it. Then the Earth, old Sorceress
Breathed a warm breath upon their striving lives
And they forgot the hand, the thew that strives,
Forgot the market-towns, and furrowed less
The lanquid streams, learning to acquiesce.
Now youngsters swim there and the wild duck dives
They left the fields on the long afternoons–
Lay under oak-limbs, drooping deep shade brown,
Where the slant sunlight lies as thick and warm
As orange cordial. In the milky moons
Moss pendulums swing in a soft sleep-charm, —
Hypnotic clocks eternally running down.
– from The Carolina Low-Country, 1932, published by The Society for the Preservation of Spirituals