Fifty years & Other Poems by James Weldon Johnson
page 49 of 87 (56%)
page 49 of 87 (56%)
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And each, departing, leaves a sigh
Linked to the past. Large resolutions, little deeds; Thus, filled with aims unreached, life speeds Until the blotted record reads, "Failure!" at last. THE GHOST OF DEACON BROWN In a backwoods town Lived Deacon Brown, And he was a miser old; He would trust no bank, So he dug, and sank In the ground a box of gold, Down deep in the ground a box of gold. He hid his gold, As has been told, He remembered that he did it; But sad to say, On the very next day, He forgot just where he hid it: To find his gold he tried and tried Till he grew faint and sick, and died. |
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