You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
’Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
’Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

She walked along the crowded street
Forgetting all but that she
Was walking as the other girls
And dressed as carefully.

The windows of the stores were frilled
To lure femininity,
To empty little pocketbooks
And assuage queen vanity.

And so my walker liked a dress
Of silver and of gold,
Draped on a bisque mannequin
So blond and slim and bold.

She took the precious metal home
And waved her soft black hair;
Powder, rouge and lipstick made
Her very neat and fair.

She slipped the dress on carefully,
Her vain dream fell away. . . .
The mirror showed a brownskin girl
She hadn’t seen all day!

“ You have classic features,
Something like Cleopatra.
Eyes like whirlpools
And as dangerous. . . .
Weeping willow eyelashes
Shade the mighty depth
Of your eyes.   Your lips
Are danger signals
Which a fool like me
Will not regard. . . .
But go dashing past them
To gain a kiss . . . or Death. ”
                 That is what he said to me,
I filled with a sweet and vain regret
That Beauty, the stranger, and I had met.
His praise was heat to drink me dry.
So I found a stream, and with a sigh
I stooped to drink . . . ah, to see
The cruel water reflecting me!
Dark-eyed, thick-lipped, harsh, short hair . . .
But Lucifer saw himself, too, fair.