Must nurture them in her despite.God could not be, if He deemed right,The grief that ever met our sight.
Jim grew; a brooder, silent, sheathed;But pride was in the air he breathed;Inside you knew an Ætna seethed.Often when some new holocaustHad come to undermine and blastThe life of some poor wretch we knew,His bones would show like white scars throughHis fists in anger's futile way."I have a fear," he used to say,"This thing may come to me some day.Some man contemptuous of my raceAnd its lost rights in this hard place,Will strike me down for being black.But when I answer I'll pay backThe late revenge long overdueA thousand of my kind and hue.A thousand black men, long since goneWill guide my hand, stiffen the brawn,And speed one life-divesting blowInto some granite face of snow.And I may swing, but not beforeI send some pale ambassador
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