The Loss Of Love Is A Terrible

Ever At Thy Glowing Altar Must My Heart Grow Sick And Falter, Wishing He I Served Were Black.

Not For Myself I Make This Prayer, But For This Race Of Mine That Stretches Forth From Shadowed Places Dark Hands For Bread And Wine.

I Doubt Not God Is Good, Well-meaning, Kind

Yet Do I Marvel At This Curious Thing:/ To Make A Poet Black, And Bid Him Sing!

For We Must Be One Thing Or The Other, An Asset Or A Liability, The Sinew In Your Wing To Help You Soar, Or The Chain To Bind You To Earth.