James Weldon Johnson, ed. (18711938). The Book of American Negro Poetry. 1922. |
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Tuskegee |
| Leslie Pinckney Hill |
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WHEREFORE this busy labor without rest? | |
Is it an idle dream to which we cling, | |
Here where a thousand dusky toilers sing | |
Unto the world their hope? Build we our best. | |
By hand and thought, they cry, although unblessed. | 5 |
So the great engines throb, and anvils ring, | |
And so the thought is wedded to the thing; | |
But what shall be the end, and what the test? | |
Dear God, we dare not answer, we can see | |
Not many steps ahead, but this we know | 10 |
If all our toilsome building is in vain, | |
Availing not to set our manhood free, | |
If envious hate roots out the seed we sow, | |
The South will wear eternally a stain. | |
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