Classic Poem

(an interpretation of the origin of Negro Spirituals)

Fair fields of whiteness,
'Neath sun-bright skies of blue:
Dark forms, moving, bending
All the day long,
Amid the wondrous whiteness:
Rich, mellow voices,
Singing strange, rare bits of song,
That seem to laugh, and sigh, and moan,
While hands, dark, toil-trained hands,
Pile up the snowy cotton,
For a waiting mart.

Toil-days, and song-days,
Merging into years of hopeful waiting,
For free days and glad days,
While the strange, rare bits of song,
That seem to laugh, and sigh, and moan,
Grow into richer, sweeter harmonies,
Until are born
The lyrics of a nation.