To those fixed on white,
White is white,
To those fixed on black,
It is the same,
Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones
Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones
In their hip-pockets as a thing that's done,
And start their silent swinging, one by one.
A certain man wishes to be a prince
Of this earth; he also wants to be
A saint and master of the being-world.
Conscience cannot exist in the first:
There is a natty kind of mind
That slicks its thoughts,
Culls its oughts,
Trims its views,
coiled like a lyncher's rope,
Lips-old scars, or the first red blisters,
whisper of yellow globes
gleaming on lamp-posts that sway
like bootleg licker drinkers in the fog
Come, brother, come. Lets lift it;
come now, hewit! roll away!
Shackles fall upon the Judgment Day
But lets not wait for it.
Full moon rising on the waters of my heart,
Lakes and moon and fires,
Holding her lips apart.
Boll-weevil's coming, and the winter's cold,
Made cotton-stalks look rusty, seasons old,
And cotton, scarce as any southern snow,
Was vanishing; the branch, so pinched and slow,