can move the mountain in the throat 
of a human being calling out their own 
mother’s name on the verge of a moment 
no English word capably denotes

One does such work as one will not,
    And well each knows the right;
Though the white storm howls, or the sun is hot,
    The black must serve the white.
And it’s, oh, for the white man’s softening flesh,
    While the black man’s muscles grow!
Well I know which grows the mightier,
    I know; full well I know.

The white man seeks the soft, fat place,
    And he moves and he works by rule.
Ingenious grows the humbler race
    In Oppression’s prodding school.
And it’s, oh, for a white man gone to seed,
    While the Negro struggles so!
And I know which race develops most,
    I know; yes, well I know.

The white man rides in a palace car,
    And the Negro rides “Jim Crow”
To damn the other with bolt and bar,
    One creepeth so low; so low!
And it’s, oh, for a master’s nose in the mire,
    While the humbled hearts o’erflow!
Well I know whose soul grows big at this,
    And whose grows small; I know!

The white man leases out his land,
    And the Negro tills the same.
One works; one loafs and takes command;
    But I know who wins the game!
And it’s, oh, for the white man’s shrinking soil.
    As the black’s rich acres grow!
Well I know how the signs point out at last,
    I know; ah, well I know!

The white man votes for his color’s sake.
    While the black, for his is barred;
(Though “ignorance” is the charge they make),
    But the black man studies hard.
And it’s, oh, for the white man’s sad neglect,
    For the power of his light let go!
So, I know which man must win at last,
    I know! Ah, Friend, I know!

Ever and ever anon,
    After the black storm, the eternal, beauteous bow!
Brother, to rosy-painted mists that arch beyond,
    Blithely I go.

My brows men laureled and my lyre
    Twined with immortal ivy for one little rippling song;
My “House of Golden Leaves” they praised and “passionate fire”—
    But, Friend, the way is long!

Onward and onward, up! away!
    Though Fear flaunt all his banners in my face,
And my feet stumble, lo! the Orphean Day!
    Forward by God’s grace!

These signs are still before me: “Fear,”
    “Danger,” “Unprecedented,” and I hear black “No”
Still thundering, and “Churl.” Good Friend, I rest me here—
    Then to the glittering bow!

Loometh and cometh Hate in wrath,
    Mailed Wrong, swart Servitude and Shame with bitter rue,
Nathless a Negro poet’s feet must tread the path
    The winged god knew.

Thus, my true Brother, dream-led, I
    Forfend the anathema, following the span.
I hold my head as proudly high
    As any man.

I talk with you of foolish things and wise,
    Of persons, places, books, desires and aims, 
Yet all our words a silence underlies,
    An earnest, vivid thought that neither names.

Ah! what to us where foolish talk or wise?
    Were persons, places, books, desires or aims, 
Without the deeper sense that underlies, 
    The sweet encircling thought that neither names? 

¹⁸⁸²