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:
Come, brother, come. Lets lift it;
come now, hewit! roll away!
Shackles fall upon the Judgment Day
But lets not wait for it.
coiled like a lyncher's rope,
Lips-old scars, or the first red blisters,
There is a natty kind of mind
That slicks its thoughts,
Culls its oughts,
Trims its views,
whisper of yellow globes
gleaming on lamp-posts that sway
like bootleg licker drinkers in the fog
Full moon rising on the waters of my heart,
Lakes and moon and fires,
Holding her lips apart.
Pour O pour that parting soul in song
O pour it in the sawdust glow of night
Into the velvet pine-smoke air tonight,
And let the valley carry it along.
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,