My mother bore me in the southern wild, And
I am black, but oh, my soul is white; White
as an angel is the English child, But
I am black as if bereaved of light. My
mother taught me underneath a tree, And
sitting down before the heat of day She
took me on her lap and kissed me, And
pointing to the east began to say: ‘Look
on the rising sun: there God does live And
gives his light, and gives his heat away; And
flowers and trees and beasts and men receive Comfort
in morning joy in the noon day. ‘And
we are put on earth a little space, That
we may learn to bear the beams of love, And
these black bodies and this sun-burnt face Is
but a cloud, and like a shady grove. ‘For
when our souls have learned the heat to bear The
cloud will vanish, we shall hear his voice, Saying:
“Come out from the grove, my love and care, And
round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.”’ Thus
did my mother say, and kissed me; And
thus I say to little English boy: When
I from black and he from white cloud free And
round the tent of God like lambs we joy, I’ll
shade him from the heat till he can bear To
lean in joy upon our Father’s knee; And
then I’ll stand and stroke his silver hair, And be like him and he will then love me. |
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