The Glory of the Day

It is a beautiful poem, but it is sad. It may be frightening. Worse yet, it is idealistic ... even naive ... romantic. It knows nothing of scarce resources which must be guarded… or pillaged when they belong to others. It is generous. The poet’s heart is not mired in discontent. He is not at odds, does not feel displaced from his rightful spot. He is not ashamed that he loves.

His name is James Weldon Johnson — the author of “Lift Every Voice and Sing”. He is Black. I was surprised to discover that. So, apparently, was he. His voice is possessed of such a special intelligence, his mind so focused in a place I could only identify as my own, that it seems incredible that this mind should be that of a man of a different race. And, yet, of course, he is a very Black writer. His themes, the occasions for many of his works, come directly from the Black community. They are expressed in plainly human terms. His heart and words are plainly human —

The glory of the day was in her face,
The beauty of the night was in her eyes.
And over all her loveliness, the grace
Of morning blushing in the early skies.

She is, of course, his much beloved wife. “When I met her, “ he says in his Autobiography of an Ex-colored Man, “When I met her, the surprise which I had felt at the first sound of her voice was heightened; she was almost tall and quite slender, with lustrous yellow hair and eyes so blue as to appear almost black. She was as white as a lily, and she was dressed in white.” And for the first time he had to face squarely the fact that he, on the other hand, was not. He says, “ ...I became again the bashful boy of fourteen, and my courage failed me. ...I don’t know what she said to me or what I said to her. I can remember that I tried to be clever, and experienced a growing conviction that I was making myself appear more and more idiotic. I am certain, too, that in spite of my ... complexion, I was red as a beet.”

The glory of the day was in her face,
The beauty of the night was in her eyes.
And over all her loveliness, the grace
Of morning blushing in the early skies.

And in her voice, the calling of the dove;
Like music of a sweet melodious part.
And in her smile, the breaking light of love;
And all the gentle virtues in her heart.

This is just so romantic. I was going to say, ‘it is just so male.’ I have never heard a woman speak this way. (Perhaps I just haven’t read enough in the Romance Novels vineyard.) I know there are women who feel that they have suffered from this seeming excessive identification of Virtue with Womanhood and, yet, its absence can be the cause of a desperate suffering.

“Gentle virtues ... sweet melodious part … calling … smiling ... in her heart.” Am I just old, just out of touch, that I weep for the absence of such tenderness in this life? Must we all be athletic go-getters, quick to fight, quick to scorn? Some kind of Super Adults who never need, never long — always the Meeters capable to the demands of the day? — always the Providers to others’ needs?

Here is the whole poem as Johnson wrote it. I’ll read it once and then I’m gone —

The glory of the day was in her face,
The beauty of the night was in her eyes.
And over all her loveliness, the grace
Of morning blushing in the early skies.

And in her voice, the calling of the dove;
Like music of a sweet melodious part.
And in her smile, the breaking light of love;
And all the gentle virtues in her heart.

And now the glorious day, the beauteous night,
The birds that signal to their mates at dawn,
To my dull ears, to my tear-blinded sight
Are one with all the dead, since she is gone.