Classic Poem

We do not know who made them.
The lips that gave them birth
Are dust in the slaves' burying ground,
Anonymous as earth.

The poets, the musicians,
Were bondsmen bred and born.
They picked the master's cotton,
They hoed the master's corn.

The load was heavy on their backs,
The way was long and cold,
—But out of stolen Africa,
The singing river rolled,
And David's hands were dusky hands,
But David's harp was gold.