What owe I to my sister of the poor? Or to my brother with blood-dripping hands? To him the golden largess of fair lands? To her the gauze and girdled gems' allure? Or shall I from God's mountain summits pure Bend down with pity of His love divine— But still as largess from some far off shrine— To heal the bruises which to life innure? Nay, nay; a brotherhood that knows its own, Which passing, calls in no uncertain tone, While it extends the even hand of friend, "Hail, comrade hail! We fare the self-same way; Come, let us walk together for the day; Together we may find the wished-for end." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO THE MEMORY OF INEZ MILHOLLAND by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DOWN BY THE CARIB SEA: 4. THE LOTTERY GIRL by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON AQUATINT FRAMED IN GOLD by AMY LOWELL DISMAL MOMENT PASSING by CLARENCE MAJOR THE ARABIAN SHAWL by KATHERINE MANSFIELD IN 'DESIGNING A CLOAK TO CLOAK HIS DESIGNS' YOU WRESTED FROM OBLIVION by MARIANNE MOORE |