At thy return my blushing was not small, My rambling brat (in print) should mother call, I cast thee by as one unfit for light, Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight; Yet being mine own, at length affection would Thy blemishes amend, if so I could:

Thou ill-form’d offspring of my feeble brain, Who after birth didst by my side remain, Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true,

I cannot love them; and I feel your glad Chiding from the grave, That my all was only worth at all, what Joy to you it gave.

But I can wait the seven of moons, Or years I spare, Hoarding the heart’s plenty, nor spend A drop, nor share—

The fiery wattles of the sun startle into flame The marbled towers of Shushan: So at each day’s wane, two peers—the one in Heaven, the other on earth—welcome with their        15 Splendor the peerless beauty of the Queen.  

Shushan

This Great God, Like a mammy bending over her baby, Kneeled down in the dust Toiling over a lump of clay Till he shaped it in his own image;

Then God smiled, And the light broke, And the darkness rolled up on one side, And the light stood shining on the other, And God said: That's good!

And God stepped out on space, And he looked around and said: I'm lonely – I'll make me a world

Enough, the brute must die!   

The ancient trait which fights incessantly    Against restraint

(THE VICTIM SPEAKS:)

See! There he stands; not brave, but with an air    Of sullen stupor. Mark him well! Is he Not more like brute than man? Look in his eye!    No light is there; none, save the glint that shines    In the now glaring, and now shifting orbs Of some wild animal caught in the hunter’s trap.

But my sweetheart was shy, so I dared not ask For the boon, so bravely I wore the mask. But into her face there came a flame:— I wonder could she have been thinking the same?

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,     When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,— When he beats his bars and he would be free; It is not a carol of joy or glee,     But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,    But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings— I know why the caged bird sings!

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!

Now they have taken him from the jail,    And hard and fast they ride, And the leader laughs low down in his throat,    As they halt my trunk beside.

They have fooled the jailer with lying words,    They have fooled the man with lies; The bolts unbar, the locks are drawn,    And the great door open flies.

We sing, but oh the clay is vile Beneath our feet, and long the mile; But let the world dream otherwise,        We wear the mask!

, It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,— This debt we pay to human guile; With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,

The Song of the Smoke By W. E. B. Du Bois

I walk through the churchyard To lay this body down; I know moon–rise, I know star–rise; I walk in the moonlight, I walk in the starlight; I'll lie in the grave and stretch out my arms, I'll go to judgment in the evening of the day, And my soul and thy soul shall meet that day, When I lay this body down.

Then Frankie pulled back her kimono And she pulled out a small .44 And root-e-toot-toot three times she shot

Well this story has no moral And this story has got no end Well the story just goes to show you women That there ain’t no good in men He was her man, but he done her wrong

No more auction block for meNo more, no more

Many thousands gone

  The charge for my board at Hampton was ten dollars per month. I was expected to pay a part of this in cash and to work out the remainder.

    More than once I have tried to picture myself in the position of a boy or man with an honoured and distinguished ancestry which I could trace back through a period of hundreds of years, and who had not only inherited a name, but fortune and a proud family homestead; and yet I have sometimes had the feeling that if I had inherited these, and had been a member of a more popular race, I should have been inclined to yield to the temptation of depending upon my ancestry and my colour to do that for me which I should do for myself. Years ago I resolved that because I had no ancestry myself I would leave a record of which my children would be proud, and which might encourage them to still higher effort.

The lesson that my mother taught me in this has always remained with me, and I have tried as best I could to teach it to others. I have always felt proud, whenever I think of the incident, that my mother had strength of character enough not to be fed into the temptation of seeming to be that which she was not - of trying to impress my schoolmates and others with the fact that she was able to buy me a "store hat" when she was not. I have always felt proud that she refused to go into debt for that which she did not have the money to pay for. Since that time I have owned many kinds of caps and hats, but never one of which I have felt so Page 34 proud as of the cap made of the two pieces of cloth sewed together by my mother. I have noted the fact, but without satisfaction, I need not add, that several of the boys who began their careers with "store hats" and who were my schoolmates and used to join in the sport that was made of me because I had only a "homespun" cap, have ended their careers in the penitentiary, while others are not able now to buy any kind of hat.

, I mastered the greater portion of the alphabet. In all my efforts to learn to read my mother shared full my ambition, and sympathized with me and aided me in every way that she could. Though she was totally ignorant, so far as mere book knowledge was concerned, she had high ambitions for her children, and a large fund of good hard, common sense which seemed to enable her to meet and master every situation. If I have done anything in life worth attention, I feel sure that I inherited the disposition from my mother.

Of course we at once abandoned that cabin. Finally we reached our destination - a little town called Malden, which is about five miles from Charleston, the present capital of the state.

. The picture of several dozen boys and girls in a schoolroom engaged in study made a deep impression upon me, and I had the feeling that to get into a schoolhouse and study in this way would be about the same as getting into paradise.

I do not know the month or the day. The earliest impressions I can now recall are of the plantation and the slave quarters -- the latter being the part of the plantation where the slaves had their cabins.         My life had its beginning in the midst of the most miserable, desolate, and discouraging surroundings. This was so, however,

We didn’t say certain words in my home because we were told they could hurt people, but words were the only way I ever knew how to fight.

“They convinced me” meaning they had dragged her 4'10'' black Woman's frame over the hot coals of four centuries of white male approval until she let go the first real power she ever had and lined her own womb with cement to make a graveyard for our children.

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.Life is short, and I’ve shortened minein a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,a thousand deliciously ill-advised waysI’ll keep from my children. The world is at least

Any decent realtor,walking you through a real shithole, chirps onabout good bones:

Whoever   heard   of   turning   pain   into   hummingbirds   or   red  birds—

from Yellowstone or Yosemite and the byway’s historical marker beckons them to the site of an Indian village—   Where trouble was brewing. Where, after further hostilities, the army was directed to enter. Where the village was razed after the skirmish occurred. Where most were women and children.

I use a trick to teach students how to avoid passive voice.   Circle the verbs. Imagine inserting “by zombies” after each one.

Something is Coming Toward Us

Aloft in the air golden and golden the dial among the mounds So much is stunted in understanding of what a light can be

DEATH.     We have now     But a small portion of what men call time,     To hold communion.

Nig was in truth suffering much; her feelings were very intense on any subject, when once aroused. She read her Bible carefully, and as often as an opportunity presented, which was when entirely secluded in her own apartment, or by Aunt Abby's side, who kindly directed her to Christ, and instructed her in the way of salvation.

Pity and love know little severance. One attends the other.

cious that the great bond of union to her former companions was severed, that the disdain of others would be insupportable, she determined to leave the few friends she possessed, and seek an asylum among strangers. Her offspring came unwelcomed, and before its nativity numbered weeks, it passed from earth, ascending to a purer and better life. "God be thanked," ejaculated Mag, as she saw its breathing cease; "no one can taunt HER with my ruin."

LONELY MAG SMITH! See her as she walks with downcast eyes and heavy heart. It was not always thus. She HAD a loving, trusting heart. Early deprived of parental guardianship, far removed from relatives, she was left to guide her tiny boat over life's surges alone and inexperienced. As she merged into womanhood, unprotected, uncherished, uncared for, there fell on her ear the music of love, awakening an intensity of emotion long dormant.

My humble position and frank confession of errors will, I hope, shield me from severe criticism. Indeed, defects are so apparent it requires no skilful hand to expose them. I sincerely appeal to my colored brethren universally for patronage, hoping they will not condemn this attempt of their sister to be erudite, but rally around me a faithful band of supporters and defenders.

If the mother-love be so strong and greatFor her child, sin-weary and desolate,Oh what must the love of the Father beFor souls who have wandered like you and me!

The streets were not safe for my darling child;Where sin with its evil attractions smiled.But his wandering feet have ceased to roam,And tonight my wayward boy is at home­

Crime has no sex and yet to-day I wear the brand of shame; Whilst he amid the gay and proud Still bears an honored name.

Would you blame the world if it should press On him a civic crown; And see me struggling in the depth Then harshly press me down?

Can you blame me that I did not see Beneath his burning kiss The serpent’s wiles, nor even hear The deadly adder hiss?

For their own children, in whose veins Should flow that patriotic blood, So freely shed on field and flood. Oh no; they fought, as they believed, For the inherent rights of man;

America, it is to thee, Thou boasted land of liberty,— It is to thee I raise my song, Thou land of blood, and crime, and wrong. It is to thee, my native land, From whence has issued many a band To tear the black man from his soil, And force him here to delve and toil; Chained on your blood-bemoistened sod, Cringing beneath a tyrant's rod, Stripped of those rights which Nature's God Bequeathed to all the human race, Bound to a petty tyrant's nod, Because he wears a paler face.

In freedom's cause their voices raise, And burst the bonds of every slave; Till, north and south, and east and west, The wrongs we bear shall be redressed.

 No hope of bliss, no fear of pains Fiercer than what already rend,    With tortures keen, his inmost heart, Without a hope, without a friend,    With nothing to allay the smart From blighted love, affection broken,    From blasted hopes and cankering care, When every thought, each word that’s spoken    Urges him onward to despair.

Because you still listen, because in times like these to have you listen at all, it's necessary to talk about trees.

I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods meeting the unmarked strip of light— ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise: I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.

You are not presumed to be innocent if the police  have reason to suspect you are carrying a concealed wallet.  It’s not our fault you were born wearing a gang color. 

so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings    with a fearful trill    of things unknown    but longed for still   

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams    his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream    his wings are clipped and his feet are tied    so he opens his throat to sing.

"Dr. Flint is dead. He has left a distressed family. Poor old man! I hope he made his peace with God."

    "Dear Daughter: I cannot hope to see you again on earth; but I pray to God to unite us above, where pain will no more rack this feeble body of mine; where sorrow and parting from my children will be no more. God has promised these things if we are faithful unto the end. My age and feeble health deprive me of going to church now; but God is with me here at home. Thank your brother for his kindness. Give much love to him, and tell him to remember the Creator in the days of his youth, and strive to meet me in the Father's kingdom. Love to Ellen and Benjamin. Don't neglect him. Tell him for me, to be a good boy. Strive, my child, to train them for God's Page 294 children. May he protect and provide for you, is the prayer of your loving old mother."

The slaves begged the privilege of again meeting at their little church in the woods, with their burying ground around it. It was built by the colored people, and they had no higher happiness than to meet there and sing hymns together, and pour out their hearts in spontaneous prayer. Their request was denied, and the church was demolished. They were permitted to attend the white churches, a certain portion Page 104 of the galleries being appropriated to their use. There, when every body else had partaken of the communion, and the benediction had been pronounced, the minister said, "Come down, now, my colored friends." They obeyed the summons, and partook of the bread and wine, in commemoration of the meek and lowly Jesus, who said, "God is your Father, and all ye are brethren."

      Every where the years bring to all enough of sin and sorrow; but in slavery the very dawn of life is darkened by these shadows. Even the little child, who is accustomed to wait on her mistress and her children, will learn, before she is twelve years old, why it is that her mistress hates such and such a one among the slaves. Perhaps the child's own mother is among those hated ones. She listens to violent outbreaks of jealous passion, and cannot help understanding what is the cause. She will become prematurely knowing in evil things. Soon she will learn to tremble when she hears her master's footfall. She Page 46 will be compelled to realize that she is no longer a child. If God has bestowed beauty upon her, it will prove her greatest curse. That which commands admiration in the white woman only hastens the degradation of the female slave. I know that some are too much brutalized by slavery to feel the humiliation of their position; but many slaves feel it most acutely, and shrink from the memory of it. I cannot tell how much I suffered in the presence of these wrongs, nor how I am still pained by the retrospect. My master met me at every turn, reminding me that I belonged to him, and swearing by heaven and earth that he would compel me to submit to him. If I went out for a breath of fresh air, after a day of unwearied toil, his footsteps dogged me. If I knelt by my mother's grave, his dark shadow fell on me even there. The light heart which nature had given me became heavy with sad forebodings. The other slaves in my master's house noticed the change. Many of them pitied me; but none dared to ask the cause. They had no need to inquire. They knew too well the guilty practices under that roof; and they were aware that to speak of them was an offence that never went unpunished.

  From others than the master persecution also comes in such cases. I once saw a young slave girl dying soon after the birth of a child nearly white. In her agony she cried out, "O Lord, come and take me!" Her mistress stood by, and mocked at her like an incarnate fiend. "You suffer, do you?" she exclaimed. "I am glad of it. You deserve it all, and more too."         The girl's mother said, "The baby is dead, thank God; and I hope my poor child will soon be in heaven, too."         "Heaven!" retorted the mistress. "There is no such place for the like of her and her bastard."         The poor mother turned away, sobbing. Her dying daughter called her, feebly, and as she bent over her, I heard her say, "Don't grieve so, mother; God knows all about it; and HE will have mercy upon me."         Her sufferings, afterwards, became so intense, that her mistress felt unable to stay; but when she left the room, the scornful smile was still on her lips. Seven children called her mother. The poor black woman had but the one child, whose eyes she saw closing in death, while she thanked God for taking her away from the greater bitterness of life.

 Mrs. Flint, like many southern women, was totally deficient in energy. She had not strength to superintend her household affairs; but her nerves were so strong, that she could sit in her easy chair and see a woman whipped, till the blood trickled from every stroke of the lash. She was a member of the church; but partaking of the Lord's supper did not seem to put her in a Christian frame of mind. If dinner was not served at the exact time on that particular Sunday, she would station herself in the kitchen, and wait till it was dished, and then spit in all the kettles and pans that had been used for cooking.

My brother was a spirited boy; and being brought up under such influences, he early detested the name of master and mistress. One day, when his father and his mistress both happened to call him at the same time, he hesitated between the two; being perplexed to know which had the strongest claim upon his obedience. He finally concluded to go to his mistress. When my father reproved him for it, he said, "You both called me, and I didn't know which I ought to go to first."         "You are my child," replied our father, "and when I call you, you should come immediately, if you have to pass through fire and water."         Poor Willie! He was now to learn his first lesson of obedience to a master. Grandmother tried to cheer us with hopeful words, and they found an echo in the credulous hearts of youth.

       I WAS born a slave; but I never knew it till six years of happy childhood had passed away. My father was a carpenter, and considered so intelligent and skilful in his trade, that, when buildings out of the common line were to be erected, he was sent for from long distances, to be head workman. On condition of paying his mistress two hundred dollars a year, and supporting himself, he was allowed to work at his trade, and manage his own affairs. His strongest wish was to purchase his children; but, though he several times offered his hard earnings for that purpose, he never succeeded. In complexion my parents were a light shade of brownish yellow, and were termed mulattoes. They lived together in a comfortable home; and, though we were all slaves, I was so fondly shielded that I never dreamed I was a piece Page 12 of merchandise, trusted to them for safe keeping, and liable to be demanded of them at any moment.

Alas! and am I born for this, To wear this slavish chain? Deprived of all created bliss, Through hardship, toil and pain! How long have I in bondage lain, And languished to be free! Alas! and must I still complain— Deprived of liberty.

Weep for the loss the country has sustained,By which her now dependent is in jail;The grief of him who now the war survived,The conscript husbands and the weeping wives!

Who fell beneath the hatchet of their pride,Then like the serpent bit themselves and died!

   Imagination! who can sing thy force?Or who describe the swiftness of thy course?Soaring through air to find the bright abode,Th' empyreal palace of the thund'ring God,We on thy pinions can surpass the wind,And leave the rolling universe behind:From star to star the mental optics rove,Measure the skies, and range the realms above.There in one view we grasp the mighty whole,Or with new worlds amaze th' unbounded soul.

Through all the heav'ns what beauteous dies are spread! But the west glories in the deepest red:

zephyr's wing,

A Hymn to the Evening