By Paul Laurence Dunbar
This is the debt I pay
Just for one riotous day,
Years of regret and grief,
Sorrow without relief.
Pay it I will to the end —
Until the grave, my friend,
Gives me a true release —
Gives me the clasp of peace.
Slight was the thing I bought,
Small was the debt I thought,
Poor was the loan at best —
God! but the interest!
Poet Bio
More By This Poet
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Thou art my lute, by thee I sing,—
My being is attuned to thee.
Thou settest all my words a-wing,
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Thou art my life, by thee I live,
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I am the mother of sorrows,
I am the ender of grief;
I am the bud and the blossom,
I am the late-falling leaf.
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I...
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if time is queer/and memory is trans/and my hands hurt in the cold/then
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We thought the birds were singing louder. We were almost certain they
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