THE NEGRO SPEAKS OF RIVERS

I’ve known rivers: I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins. My soul has grown deep like the rivers. I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young. I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep. I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it. I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset. I’ve known rivers: Ancient, dusky rivers. My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

My old man’s a white old man And my old mother’s black. If ever I cursed my white old man I take my curses back. If ever I cursed my black old mother And wished she were in hell, I’m sorry for that evil wish And now I wish her well. My old man died in a fine big house. My ma died in a shack. I wonder where I’m gonna die, Being neither white nor black?

In one hand I hold tragedy And in the other Comedy,— Masks for the soul. Laugh with me. You would laugh! Weep with me. You would weep! Tears are my laughter. Laughter is my pain. Cry at my grinning mouth, If you will. Laugh at my sorrow’s reign. I am the Black Jester, The dumb clown of the world, The booted, booted fool of silly men. Once I was wise. Shall I be wise again?

The lazy, laughing South With blood on its mouth. The sunny-faced South, Beast-strong, Idiot-brained. The child-minded South Scratching in the dead fire’s ashes For a Negro’s bones. Cotton and the moon, Warmth, earth, warmth, The sky, the sun, the stars, The magnolia-scented South. Beautiful, like a woman, Seductive as a dark-eyed whore, Passionate, cruel, Honey-lipped, syphilitic— That is the South. And I, who am black, would love her But she spits in my face. And I, who am black, Would give her many rare gifts But she turns her back upon me. So now I seek the North— The cold-faced North, For she, they say, Is a kinder mistress, And in her house my children May escape the spell of the South.

It was a long time ago. I have almost forgotten my dream. But it was there then, In front of me, Bright like a sun,— My dream. And then the wall rose, Rose slowly, Slowly, Between me and my dream. Rose slowly, slowly, Dimming, Hiding, The light of my dream. Rose until it touched the sky,— The wall. Shadow. I am black. I lie down in the shadow. No longer the light of my dream before me, Above me. Only the thick wall. Only the shadow. My hands! My dark hands! Break through the wall! Find my dream! Help me to shatter this darkness, To smash this night, To break this shadow Into a thousand lights of sun, Into a thousand whirling dreams Of sun!

Aunt Sue has a head full of stories. Aunt Sue has a whole heart full of stories. Summer nights on the front porch Aunt Sue cuddles a brown-faced child to her bosom And tells him stories. Black slaves Working in the hot sun, And black slaves Walking in the dewy night, And black slaves Singing sorrow songs on the banks of a mighty river Mingle themselves softly In the flow of old Aunt Sue’s voice, Mingle themselves softly In the dark shadows that cross and recross Aunt Sue’s stories. And the dark-faced child, listening, Knows that Aunt Sue’s stories are real stories. He knows that Aunt Sue Never got her stories out of any book at all, But that they came Right out of her own life. And the dark-faced child is quiet Of a summer night Listening to Aunt Sue’s stories.

The night is beautiful, So the faces of my people. The stars are beautiful, So the eyes of my people. Beautiful, also, is the sun. Beautiful, also, are the souls of my people.