If I Am Going To

Quaint, Outlandish Heathen Gods Black Men Fashion Out Of Rods

Africa? A Book One Thumbs Listlessly, Till Slumber Comes.

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

What Is Last Year's Snow To Me, Last Year's Anything? The Tree Budding Yearly Must Forget How Its Past Arose Or Set

Death Cut The Strings That Gave Me Life, And Handed Me To Sorrow, The Only Kind Of Middle Wife My Folks Could Beg Or Borrow.