For him to be humble who is proud Needs colder artifice; Though half his pride is disavowed, In vain the sacrifice. Sheer through his acquiescent mask Of bland gentility, The jungle flames like a copper cask Set where the sun strikes free. _Near White_ Ambiguous of race they stand, By one disowned, scorned of another, Not knowing where to stretch a hand, And cry, “My sister” or “My brother.” _Tableau_ _For Donald Duff_ Locked arm in arm they cross the way, The black boy and the white, The golden splendor of the day, The sable pride of night. From lowered blinds the dark folk stare, And here the fair folk talk, Indignant that these two should dare In unison to walk. Oblivious to look and word They pass, and see no wonder That lightning brilliant as a sword Should blaze the path of thunder. _Harlem Wine_ This is not water running here, These thick rebellious streams That hurtle flesh and bone past fear Down alleyways of dreams. This is a wine that must flow on Not caring how nor where, So it has ways to flow upon Where song is in the air. So it can woo an artful flute With loose, elastic lips, Its measurement of joy compute With blithe, ecstatic hips. _Simon the Cyrenian Speaks_ He never spoke a word to me, And yet He called my name; He never gave a sign to me, And yet I knew and came. At first I said, “I will not bear His cross upon my back; He only seeks to place it there Because my skin is black.” But He was dying for a dream, And He was very meek, And in His eyes there shone a gleam Men journey far to seek. It was Himself my pity bought; I did for Christ alone What all of Rome could not have wrought With bruise of lash or stone. _Incident_ (_For Eric Walrond_) Once riding in old Baltimore, Heart-filled, head-filled with glee, I saw a Baltimorean Keep looking straight at me. Now I was eight and very small, And he was no whit bigger, And so I smiled, but he poked out His tongue, and called me, “Nigger.” I saw the whole of Baltimore From May until December; Of all the things that happened there That’s all that I remember. _Two Who Crossed a Line_ (_She Crosses_) From where she stood the air she craved Smote with the smell of pine; It was too much to bear; she braved Her gods and crossed the line. And we were hurt to see her go, With her fair face and hair, And veins too thin and blue to show What mingled blood flowed there. We envied her a while, who still Pursued the hated track; Then we forgot her name, until One day her shade came back. Calm as a wave without a crest, Sorrow-proud and sorrow-wise, With trouble sucking at her breast, With tear-disdainful eyes,