The Negro Singer

O’er all my song the image of a face
    Lieth, like shadow on the wild sweet flowers.
    The dream, the ecstasy that prompts my powers;
    The golden lyre’s delights bring little grace
To bless the singer of a lowly race.
    Long hath this mocked me: aye in marvelous hours,
    When Hera’s gardens gleamed, or Cynthia’s bowers,
    Or Hope’s red pylons, in their far, hushed place!
But I shall dig me deeper to the gold;
    Fetch water, dripping, over desert miles.
    From clear Nyanzas and mysterious Niles
Of love; and sing, nor one kind act withhold.
    So shall men know me, and remember long,
    Nor my dark face dishonor any song.