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.