Modern American Poetry

American poetry -- 19th century; American poetry -- 20th century

THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, [Sidenote: _Exactly as
    in the first section._]
 CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK.
 And the gray sky opened like a new-rent veil
 And showed the apostles with their coats of mail.
 In bright white steel they were seated round
 And their fire-eyes watched where the Congo wound.
 And the twelve apostles, from their thrones on high,
 Thrilled all the forest with their heavenly cry:—
 “Mumbo-Jumbo will die in the jungle; [Sidenote: _Sung to the tune of
    “Hark, ten thousand harps and voices.”_]
 Never again will he hoo-doo you,
 Never again will he hoo-doo you.”
 Then along that river, a thousand miles, [Sidenote: _With growing
    deliberation and joy._]
 The vine-snared trees fell down in files.
 Pioneer angels cleared the way
 For a Congo paradise, for babes at play,
 For sacred capitals, for temples clean.
 Gone were the skull-faced witch-men lean.
 There, where the wild ghost-gods had wailed [Sidenote: _In a rather high
    key—as delicately as possible._]
 A million boats of the angels sailed
 With oars of silver, and prows of blue
 And silken pennants that the sun shone through.
 ’Twas a land transfigured, ’twas a new creation.
 Oh, a singing wind swept the negro nation;
 And on through the backwoods clearing flew:—
 “Mumbo-Jumbo is dead in the jungle. [Sidenote: _To the tune of “Hark,
    ten thousand harps and voices.”_]
 Never again will he hoo-doo you.
 Never again will he hoo-doo you.”

 Redeemed were the forests, the beasts and the men,
 And only the vulture dared again
 By the far, lone mountains of the moon
 To cry, in the silence, the Congo tune:—
 “Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you. [Sidenote: _Dying off into a penetrating,
    terrified whisper._]
 Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,
 Mumbo ... Jumbo ... will ... hoo-doo ... you.”


              TO A GOLDEN HAIRED GIRL IN A LOUISIANA TOWN

           You are a sunrise,
           If a star should rise instead of the sun.
           You are a moonrise,
           If a star should come in the place of the moon.
           You are the Spring,
           If a face should bloom instead of an apple-bough.
           You are my love,
           If your heart is as kind
           As your young eyes now.


                             THE TRAVELLER

                      The moon’s a devil jester
                      Who makes himself too free.
                      The rascal is not always
                      Where he appears to be.
                      Sometimes he is in my heart—
                      Sometimes he is in the sea;
                      Then tides are in my heart,
                      And tides are in the sea.

                      O traveller, abiding not
                      Where he pretends to be!


                      A NEGRO SERMON:—SIMON LEGREE

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Opening the text

General

Modern American Poetry

American poetry -- 19th century; American poetry -- 20th century

THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, [Sidenote: _Exactly as
    in the first section._]
 CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK.
 And the gray sky opened like a new-rent veil
 And showed the apostles with their coats of mail.
 In bright white steel they were seated round
 And their fire-eyes watched where the Congo wound.
 And the twelve apostles, from their thrones on high,
 Thrilled all the forest with their heavenly cry:—
 “Mumbo-Jumbo will die in the jungle; [Sidenote: _Sung to the tune of
    “Hark, ten thousand harps and voices.”_]
 Never again will he hoo-doo you,
 Never again will he hoo-doo you.”
 Then along that river, a thousand miles, [Sidenote: _With growing
    deliberation and joy._]
 The vine-snared trees fell down in files.
 Pioneer angels cleared the way
 For a Congo paradise, for babes at play,
 For sacred capitals, for temples clean.
 Gone were the skull-faced witch-men lean.
 There, where the wild ghost-gods had wailed [Sidenote: _In a rather high
    key—as delicately as possible._]
 A million boats of the angels sailed
 With oars of silver, and prows of blue
 And silken pennants that the sun shone through.
 ’Twas a land transfigured, ’twas a new creation.
 Oh, a singing wind swept the negro nation;
 And on through the backwoods clearing flew:—
 “Mumbo-Jumbo is dead in the jungle. [Sidenote: _To the tune of “Hark,
    ten thousand harps and voices.”_]
 Never again will he hoo-doo you.
 Never again will he hoo-doo you.”

 Redeemed were the forests, the beasts and the men,
 And only the vulture dared again
 By the far, lone mountains of the moon
 To cry, in the silence, the Congo tune:—
 “Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you. [Sidenote: _Dying off into a penetrating,
    terrified whisper._]
 Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,
 Mumbo ... Jumbo ... will ... hoo-doo ... you.”


              TO A GOLDEN HAIRED GIRL IN A LOUISIANA TOWN

           You are a sunrise,
           If a star should rise instead of the sun.
           You are a moonrise,
           If a star should come in the place of the moon.
           You are the Spring,
           If a face should bloom instead of an apple-bough.
           You are my love,
           If your heart is as kind
           As your young eyes now.


                             THE TRAVELLER

                      The moon’s a devil jester
                      Who makes himself too free.
                      The rascal is not always
                      Where he appears to be.
                      Sometimes he is in my heart—
                      Sometimes he is in the sea;
                      Then tides are in my heart,
                      And tides are in the sea.

                      O traveller, abiding not
                      Where he pretends to be!


                      A NEGRO SERMON:—SIMON LEGREE

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Modern American Poetry

Modern American Poetry

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