Here’s to your eyes
for the things I see
drowned in them.
Here’s to your lips
Two livid streaks of flame. . . .
Here’s to your heart
May it ever be full
of the love of loving. . . .
Here’s to your body
a lithesome hill top tree
swaying
to a spring’s morning breath. . . .
Here’s to your soul
as yet
unborn. . . .
From The Book of American Negro Poetry (Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1922), edited by James Weldon Johnson. This poem is in the public domain.