Page:Negro poets and their poems (IA negropoetstheirp00kerl).pdf/150

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His spirit in smoke ascended to high heaven. His Father, by the crudest way of pain, Had bidden him to his bosom once again; The awful sin remained still unforgiven: All night a bright and solitary star (Perchance the one that ever guided him, Yet gave him up at last to Fate’s wild whim) Hung pitifully o’er the swinging char. Day dawned, and soon the mixed crowds came to view The ghastly body swaying in the sun: The women thronged to look, but never a one Showed sorrow in her eyes of steely blue, And little lads, lynchers that were to be, Danced round the dreadful thing in fiendish glee.

Applauding youths laughed with young prostitutes And watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway; Her voice was like the sound of blended flutes Blown by black players upon a picnic day. She sang and danced on gracefully and calm, The light gauze hanging loose about her form; To me she seemed a proudly-swaying palm Grown lovelier for passing through a storm. Upon her swarthy neck, black, shiny curls Profusely fell; and, tossing coins in praise, The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls, Devoured her with eager, passionate gaze: But, looking at her falsely-smiling face, I knew her self was not in that strange place.