Page:Negro poets and their poems (IA negropoetstheirp00kerl).pdf/123

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Mother, must I work all day? All the day? Ay, all the day? Must my little hands be torn? And my heart bleed, all forlorn? I am but a child of five, And the street is all alive With the tops and balls and toys,— Pretty tops and balls and toys. Day in, day out, I toil—toil! And all that I know is toil; Never laugh as others do, Never cry as others do, Never see the stars at night, Nor the golden glow of sunlight,— And all for but a silver coin,— Just a worthless silver coin. Would that death might come to me! That blessed death might come to me, And lead me to waters cool, Lying in a tranquil pool, Up there where the angels sing, And the ivy tendrils cling To the land of play and song,— Fairy land of play and song.

Die, you vain but sweet desires! Die, you living, burning fires! I am like a Prince of France,— Like a prince whose noble sires