I.

    I stand on the shore

    Of t we pilgrims bended knee,

    urned to ancestor,

    And God y.

    I , my skin is as dark,

    I bend my knee dohis mark . . .

    I look on the sea.

    II.

    O pilgrim-souls, I speak to you!

    I see you come out proud and slow

    From ts pale as dew. . .

    And round me and round me ye go!

    O pilgrims, I have gasped and run

    All nighe whips of one

    ho in your names works sin and woe.

    III.

    And t t I would come

    And kneel  before,

    And feel your souls around me hum

    In undertone to the oceans roar;

    And lift my black face, my black hand,

    o curse this land

    Ye blessed in freedoms evermore.

    IV.

    I am black, I am black;

    And yet God made me, they say.

    But if he did so, smiling back

    his work away

    Under t of e creatures,

    it tures

    Migrodden again to clay.

    V.

    And yet hings

    to be glad and merry as light.

    ttle dark bird sits and sings;

    tream ripples out of sight;

    And t in the safe morass,

    And test stars are made to pass

    Oer t night.

    VI.

    But we who are dark, we are dark!

    Aars!

    About our souls in care and cark

    Our blackness ss like prison bars:

    the poor souls crouch so far behind,

    t never a comfort can they find

    By reache prison-bars.

    VII.

    Indeed, he sky, . . .