I looked at their black faces
And this is what I saw:
The wind imprisoned in the flesh,
The sun bound down by law.
I watched them moving, moving,
Like water down the street,
And this is what moved in my heart:
Their far-too-humble feet.

Voices crying in the wilderness
At so much per word
From the white folks:
" Be meek and humble,
All you niggers,
And do not cry

You made me in your last a goose;
I lay my life on't you are wrong,
To raise me by such foul abuse.
My quill you'll find's a woman's tongue,
And slit, just like a bird will chatter,
And like a bird do something more:
When I let fly, 'twill so bespatter,
I'll change you to a blackamoor.

O THIS is the way the baby came:
Out of the night as comes the dawn
Out of the embers as the flame;
Out of the bud the blossom on
The apple-bough that blooms the same
As in glad summers dead and gone —
With a grace and beauty none could name —
O this is the way the baby came!

Treason doth never prosper; what's the reason?
For if it prosper, none dare call it treason.

The trappers have collected their rabbit traps,
but the way home is hard to find.
Swirling in fog, bejeweled flowers confuse them;
swaying in the wind, jade trees slant across the road.
The chariot of the Spring Emperor has been turned back;
the blossoms of late springtime are troubled.
Soaked with snow, the wine-shop banner hangs limp.
They must ask people they meet, " Where can we get a drink? "

Awake, he loved their voices,
And wove them into his rhyme;
And the music of their laughter
Was with him all the time.
Though he knew the tongues of nations,
And their meanings all were dear,
The prattle and lisp of a little child
Was the sweetest for him to hear.

Touch but thy Lire (my Harrie) and I heare
From thee some raptures of the rare Gotire.
Then if thy voice commingle with the String
I heare in thee rare Laniere to sing;
Or curious Wilson: Tell me, canst thou be
Less then Apollo, that usurp'st such Three?
Three, unto whom the whole world give applause;
Yet their Three praises, praise but One; that's Lawes.

Too far afield thy search. Nay, turn. Nay, turn
At thine own elbow potent Memory stands,
Thy double, and eternity is cupped
In the pale hollow of those ghostly hands.

To-morrow's the fair,
And I shall be there,
Stuffing my guts
With gingerbread nuts.