Caroling Dusk/Song of the Son
For other versions of this work, see Song of the Son.
SONG OF THE SON
Pour O pour that parting soul in song,O pour it in the sawdust glow of night,Into the velvet pine-smoke air to-night,And let the valley carry it along.And let the valley carry it along.
O land and soil, red soil and sweet-gum tree,So scant of grass, so profligate of pines,Now just before an epoch’s sun declines,Thy son, in time, I have returned to thee,Thy son, I have in time returned to thee.
In time, for though the sun is setting onA song-lit race of slaves, it has not set;Though late, O soil, it is not too late yetTo catch thy plaintive soul, leaving, soon gone,Leaving, to catch thy plaintive soul soon gone.
O Negro slaves, dark purple ripened plums,Squeezed, and bursting in the pine-wood air,Passing, before they stripped the old tree bareOne plum was saved for me, one seed becomes
An everlasting song, a singing tree,Caroling softly souls of slavery,What they were, and what they are to me,Caroling softly souls of slavery.