Black men are most men; but the white are free!

White things are rare things; so rare, so rare

They stole from out a silvered world— somewhere.

Finding earth-plains fair plains, save greenly grassed,

They strewed white feathers of cowardice, as they passed;

The golden stars with lances fine

The hills all red and darkened pine,

They blanched with their wand of power;

And turned the blood in a ruby rose

To a poor white poppy-flower.

And burned them to ashes white; then

Laughing, a young one claimed a skull.

For the skull of a black is white, not dull,

But a glistening awful thing;

Made it seems, for this ghoul to swing

In the face of God with all his might,

And swear by the hell that siréd him: