Dream Variations - Let America
Be America Again - Life is fine -
Night funeral
in Harlem - Theme for English B -
Dream
Variations
To fling my arms
wide
In some place of
the sun,
To whirl and to
dance
Till the white day
is done.
Then rest at cool
evening
Beneath a tall
tree
While night comes
on gently,
Dark like me--
That is my dream!
To fling my arms
wide
In the face of the
sun,
Dance! Whirl!
Whirl!
Till the quick day
is done.
Rest at pale
evening . . .
A tall, slim tree
. . .
Night coming
tenderly
Black like me.
Let America be
America again.
Let it be the
dream it used to be.
Let it be the
pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home
where he himself is free.
(America never was
America to me.)
Let America be the
dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that
great strong land of love
Where never kings
connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be
crushed by one above.
(It never was
America to me.)
O, let my land be
a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no
false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is
real, and life is free,
Equality is in the
air we breathe.
(There's never
been equality for me,
Nor freedom in
this "homeland of the free.")
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor
white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro
bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man
driven from the land,
I am the immigrant
clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only
the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of
mighty crush the weak.
I am the young
man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that
ancient endless chain
Of profit, power,
gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold!
Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men!
Of take the pay!
Of owning
everything for one's own greed!
I am the farmer,
bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker
sold to the machine.
I am the Negro,
servant to you all.
I am the people,
humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today
despite the dream.
Beaten yet
today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who
never got ahead,
The poorest worker
bartered through the years.
Yet I'm the one
who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World
while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream
so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its
mighty daring sings
In every brick and
stone, in every furrow turned
That's made
America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who
sailed those early seas
In search of what
I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one
who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's
plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from
Black Africa's strand I came
To build a
"homeland of the free."
The free?
Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not
me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot
down when we strike?
The millions who
have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams
we've dreamed
And all the songs
we've sung
And all the hopes
we've held
And all the flags
we've hung,
The millions who
have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream
that's almost dead today.
O, let America be
America again--
The land that
never has been yet--
And yet must
be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's
mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and
blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the
foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back
our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any
ugly name you choose--
The steel of
freedom does not stain.
From those who
live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back
our land again,
America!
O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was
America to me,
And yet I swear
this oath--
America will be!
Out of the rack
and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot
of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people,
must redeem
The land, the
mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and
the endless plain--
All, all the
stretch of these great green states--
And make America
again!
I went down to the
river,
I set down on the
bank.
I tried to think
but couldn't,
So I jumped in and
sank.
I came up once and
hollered!
I came up twice
and cried!
If that water
hadn't a-been so cold
I might've sunk
and died.
But
it was Cold in that water! It was cold!
I took the
elevator
Sixteen floors
above the ground.
I thought about my
baby
And thought I
would jump down.
I stood there and
I hollered!
I stood there and
I cried!
If it hadn't
a-been so high
I might've jumped
and died.
But
it was High up there! It was high!
So since I'm still
here livin',
I guess I will
live on.
I could've died
for love--
But for livin' I
was born
Though you may
hear me holler,
And you may see me
cry--
I'll be dogged,
sweet baby,
If you gonna see
me die.
Life
is fine! Fine as wine! Life is fine!
Night funeral
In Harlem:
Where did they get
Them two fine cars?
Insurance man, he
did not pay--
His insurance
lapsed the other day--
Yet they got a
satin box
for his head to
lay.
Night funeral
In Harlem:
Who was it sent
That wreath of flowers?
Them flowers came
from that poor
boy's friends--
They'll want
flowers, too,
When they meet
their ends.
Night funeral
in Harlem:
Who preached that
Black boy to his grave?
Old preacher man
Preached that boy
away--
Charged Five
Dollars
His girl friend
had to pay.
Night funeral
In Harlem:
When it was all
over
And the lid shut
on his head
and the organ had
done played
and the last
prayers been said
and six
pallbearers
Carried him out
for dead
And off down Lenox
Avenue
That long black
hearse done sped,
The street light
At his corner
Shined just like a tear--
That boy that they
was mournin'
Was so dear, so
dear
To them folks that
brought the flowers,
To that girl who
paid the preacher man--
It was all their
tears that made
That poor boy's
Funeral grand.
Night funeral
In Harlem.
The instructor said,
Go
home and write
a
page tonight.
And
let that page come out of you--
Then,
it will be true.
I wonder if it's
that simple?
I am twenty-two,
colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school
there, then Durham, then here
to this college on
the hill above Harlem.
I am the only
colored student in my class.
The steps from the
hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park,
then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue,
Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch
Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit
down, and write this page:
It's not easy to
know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my
age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and
hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear
me--we two--you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York,
too.) Me--who?
Well, I like to
eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work,
read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for
a Christmas present,
or
records--Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being
colored doesn't make me not like
the same things
other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be
colored that I write?
Being me, it will
not be white.
But it will be
a part of you,
instructor.
You are white--
yet a part of me,
as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps
you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often
want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's
true!
As I learn from
you,
I guess you learn
from me--
although you're
older--and white--
and somewhat more
free.
This is my page
for English B.
