The race that wheedles mercies from its God Shall be the beggar always at His door; It shall debase itself before the rod, And live among the shadows ever more. But when, with growing pride in self, it stands, Asking no favors of the clouds or men, To it God reaches down His mighty hands, To it are all tomorrows given then. You know those hands! Beyond the cottonfields, Beyond the creaking tree, the faggot's flame, Your eyes have caught the vision of a race Rising by greater truths than pity yields. And you have made it dream, speak out its name -- Proud of that ancient ebon of its face! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO AN INTRA-MURAL RAT by MARIANNE MOORE BEARS AT RASPBERRY TIME by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE RETURN (2) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON YOUTH'S PROGENY by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON AT NIGHT; SONNET by AMY LOWELL DOMEDAY BOOK: MIRIAM FAY'S LETTER by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: JOSEPH DIXON by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |