The Sphinx's Riddle

Dark daughter of the lotus leaves that watch the Southern Sea! Wan spirit of a prisoned soul a-panting to be free! The muttered music of thy streams, the whisper of the deep, Have kissed each other in God's name and kissed a world to sleep. The will of the world is a whistling wind, sweeping a cloud-swept sky, And not from the East and not from the West knelled that soul-waking cry, But out of the South,—the sad, black South—it screamed from the top of the sky, Crying: "Awake, O ancient race!" Wailing, "O woman, arise!" And crying and sighing and crying again as a voice in the midnight cries,— But the burden of white men bore her back and the white world stifled her sighs. The white world's vermin and filth: All the dirt of London, All the scum of New York; Valiant spoilers of women And conquerers of unarmed men; Shameless breeders of bastards, Drunk with the greed of gold, Baiting their blood-stained hooks With cant for the souls of the simple; Bearing the white man's burden Of liquor and lust and lies! Unthankful we wince in the East, Unthankful we wail from the westward, Unthankfully thankful, we curse, In the unworn wastes of the wild: I hate them, Oh! I hate them well, I hate them, Christ! As I hate hell! If I were God, I'd sound their knell This day! Who raised the fools to their glory, But black men of Egypt and Ind, Ethiopia's sons of the evening, Indians and yellow Chinese, Arabian children of morning, And mongrels of Rome and Greece? Ah, well! And they that raised the boasters Shall drag them down again,— Down with the theft of their thieving And murder and mocking of men; Down with their barter of women And laying and lying of creeds; Down with their cheating of childhood And drunken orgies of war,— down down deep down, Till the devil's strength be shorn, Till some dim, darker David, a-hoeing of his corn, And married maiden, mother of God, Bid the black Christ be born! Then shall our burden be manhood, Be it yellow or black or white; And poverty and justice and sorrow, The humble, and simple and strong Shall sing with the sons of morning And daughters of even-song: Black mother of the iron hills that ward the blazing sea, Wild spirit of a storm-swept soul, a-struggling to be free, Where 'neath the bloody finger-marks thy riven bosom quakes, Thicken the thunders of God's Voice and lo! a world awakes!

Dark daughter of the lotus leaves that watch the Southern Sea! Pale spirit of an imprisoned soul, gasping to be free! The murmuring music of your streams and the whisper of the deep Have kissed each other in God's name and kissed a world to sleep. The will of the world is a whistling wind, sweeping a cloud-filled sky. That soul-waking cry came neither from the East nor from the West. It rang out From the South, the sad, black South. It screamed from the top of the sky, Crying: "Awake, O ancient race!" Wailing, "O woman, arise!" It cried and sighed and cried again, like a voice in the midnight. But the burden of white men pushed her back, and the white world stifled her sighs. The white world's vermin and filth: All the dirt of London, All the scum of New York. Brave violators of women And conquerors of unarmed men. Shameless fathers of bastards, Drunk with the greed for gold, Baiting their blood-stained hooks With pious talk to catch the souls of the simple. Bearing the white man's burden Of liquor and lust and lies! Ungratefully, we cringe in the East. Ungratefully, we wail from the west. Ungratefully thankful, we curse In the untouched wilderness: I hate them, oh! I hate them well, I hate them, Christ! As I hate hell! If I were God, I'd sound their death knell This day! Who raised the fools to their glory But black men of Egypt and Ind, Ethiopia's sons of the evening, Indians and yellow Chinese, Arabian children of morning, And mongrels of Rome and Greece? Ah, well! And those who raised the boasters Shall drag them down again. Down with what they stole And their murder and mockery of men. Down with their trade in women And the creeds they impose and the lies they tell. Down with their cheating of childhood And their drunken orgies of war. down down deep down, Until the devil's strength is stripped away, Until some dim, darker David, hoeing his corn, And a married maiden, mother of God, Call for the black Christ to be born! Then shall our burden be manhood, Whether yellow or black or white. And poverty and justice and sorrow, The humble, the simple, and the strong Shall sing with the sons of morning And daughters of evening song: Black mother of the iron hills that guard the blazing sea, Wild spirit of a storm-swept soul, struggling to be free, Where your torn breast trembles beneath bloody fingerprints, Let the thunder of God's Voice grow louder, and see! A world awakes!