Page:Negro poets and their poems (IA negropoetstheirp00kerl).pdf/200

178 Christ washed the feet of Judas! And thus a girded servant, self-abased, Taught that no wrong this side the gate of heaven Was ever too great to wholly be effaced, And, though unasked, in spirit be forgiven. And so if we have ever felt the wrong Of trampled rights, of caste, it matters not, What e’er the soul has felt or suffered long, Oh, heart! this one thing should not be forgot: Christ washed the feet of Judas.

O Death! If thou hast aught of tenderness, Be kindly in thy touch Of her whose fragile slenderness Was overburdened much With life. And let her seem to go to sleep, As often does a tired child, when it has grown Too tired to longer weep. A rose but half in bloom— She is too young and beautiful to die, But yet, if she must go, Let her go out as goes a sigh From tired life and woe. And let her keep, in death’s brief space This side the grave, the dusky beauty still Belonging to her face. She must have been Of those upon the trembling lyre Of whom the poets sung: