Harlem: The Black City

                                 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.