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Paul Laurence Dunbar - The Gourd
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In the heavy earth the miner
    Toiled and laboured day by day,
  Wrenching from the miser mountain
    Brilliant treasure where it lay.
  And the artist worn and weary
    Wrought with labour manifold
  That the king might drink his nectar
    From a goblet made of gold.

  On the prince`s groaning table
    Mid the silver gleaming bright
  Mirroring the happy faces
    Giving back the flaming light,
  Shine the cups of priceless crystal
    Chased with many a lovely line,
  Glowing now with warmer colour,
    Crimsoned by the ruby wine.

  In a valley sweet with sunlight,
    Fertile with the dew and rain,
  Without miner`s daily labour,
    Without artist`s nightly pain,
  There there grows the cup I drink from,
    Summer`s sweetness in it stored,
  And my lips pronounce a blessing
    As they touch an old brown gourd.

  Why, the miracle at Cana
    In the land of Galilee,
  Tho` it puzzles all the scholars,
    Is no longer strange to me.
  For the poorest and the humblest
    Could a priceless wine afford,
  If they `d only dip up water
    With a sunlight-seasoned gourd.

  So a health to my old comrade,
    And a song of praise to sing
  When he rests inviting kisses
    In his place beside the spring.
  Give the king his golden goblets,
    Give the prince his crystal hoard;
  But for me the sparkling water
    From a brown and brimming gourd!
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