Page:Prometheus Bound, and other poems.djvu/89

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Each, for his own wife's joy and gift,

A little corpse as safely at rest

As mine in the mangles!—Yea, but she

May keep live babies on her knee,

And sing the song she liketh best.

I am not mad: I am black.

I see you staring in my face—

I know you, staring, shrinking back—

Ye are born of the Washington-race:

And this land is the free America:

And this mark on my wrist. . (I prove what I say)

Ropes tied me up here to the flogging-place.

You think I shrieked then? Not a sound!

I hung, as a gourd hangs in the sun.

I only cursed them all around,

As softly as I might have done

My very own child!—From these sands

Up to the mountains, lift your hands,

O slaves, and end what I begun!

Whips, curses; these must answer those!

For in this, you have set

Two kinds of men in adverse rows,

Each loathing each: and all forget

The seven wounds in Christ's body fair;

While sees gaping everywhere

Our countless wounds that pay no debt.