We are they that go, that go, Plunging before the hidden blow. We run the byways of the earth, For we are fugitive from birth, Blindfolded, with wide hands abroad That sow, that sow the sullen sod. We cannot wait, we cannot stop For flushing field or quickened crop; The orange bow of dusky dawn Glimmers our smoking swath upon; Blindfolded still we hurry on. How we do know the ways we run That are blindfolded from the sun? We stagger swiftly to the call, Our wide hands feeling for the wall. Oh, ye who climb to some clear heaven, By grace of day and leisure given, Pity us, fugitive and driven -- The lithe whip curling on our track, The headlong haste that looks not back! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CHRISMUS ON THE PLANTATION by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR LAMENT FOR THE MAKARIS [WHEN HE WAS SEIK] by WILLIAM DUNBAR THE GRAVE OF HOMER by ALCAEUS OF MESSENE SPRING WATER by KENNETH SLADE ALLING TO ONE BEREFT by ETHEL KNAPP BEHRMAN HEY, CA' THRO' by ROBERT BURNS |