Go;—for ’tis Memorial morning—
     Go with hearts of peace and love;
Deck the graves of fallen soldiers;
     Go, your gratitude to prove.

Gather flow’rs and take them thither,
     Emblem of a nation’s tears;
Grateful hearts cannot forget them,
     In the rush of passing years.

Strew the flow’rs above their couches;
     Let thy heart’s affection blend,
With the dewy buds and blossoms,
     That in fragrant showers descend.

Strew the flow’rs above the heroes,
     Slain for loving friends and thee;
Canst thou find a better off’ring,
     For those sons of liberty?

While the buds and blooms are falling,
     Earnest hearts are asking,—Why—
In a tone, though low and gentle,
     Yet, as ardent as a cry,—

‘Why must precious lives be given,
     That our country may be free?
Is there not a nobler pathway
     To the throne of liberty?

‘Can we choose no nobler watch-word,
     Than the ringing battle-cry,
Harbinger of strife and bloodshed,
     Must we sin, that sin may die?

‘Long ago, to far Judea,
     Came the blessed Prince of Peace:
Shall we ever heed His teaching,
     That these wars and feuds may cease?’

                                 I.
We live and die, and what we reap
Is merely chaff from life’s storehouse;
For devil’s grain we barter souls 
And in his wine our bodies souse;
We build to Pleasure monuments;
But Pleasure always passes by.
The grave! —The grave! our only hope, 
The grave where dust grimed failures lie.

                                 II. 
We ask for life, men give us wine, 
We ask for rest, men give us death;
We long for Pan and Phoebus harp. 
But Bacchus blows on us his breath. 
O Harlem, weary are thy sons 
Of living that they never chose;
Give not to them the lotus leaf,
But Mary’s wreath and England’s rose.

My country, ’tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
     Would I could sing;
Its land of Pilgrim’s pride
Also where lynched men died
With such upon her tide,
     Freedom can’t reign.

My native country, thee
The world pronounce you free
     Thy name I love;
But when the lynchers rise
To slaughter human lives
Thou closest up thine eyes,
     Thy God’s above.

Let Negroes smell the breeze
So they can sing with ease
     Sweet freedom’s song;
Let justice reign supreme,
Let men be what they seem
Break up that lyncher’s screen,
     Lay down all wrong.

Our fathers’ God, to Thee,
Author of liberty,
     To Thee we sing;
How can our land be bright?
Can lynching be a light?
Protect us by thy might,
     Great God our king!

The instructor said,

    Go home and write
    a page tonight.
    And let that page come out of you—
    Then, it will be true.

I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:

It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me—we two—you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York, too.) Me—who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records—Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?

Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white—
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me—
although you're older—and white—
and somewhat more free.

This is my page for English B.