W. E. B. Du Bois

I am the Smoke King I am black! I am swinging in the sky, I am wringing worlds awry; I am the thought of the throbbing mills, I am the soul of the soul-toil kills, Wraith of the ripple of trading rills; Up I’m curling from the sod, I am whirling home to God; I am the Smoke King I am black. I am the Smoke King, I am black! I am wreathing broken hearts, I am sheathing love’s light darts; Inspiration of iron times Wedding the toil of toiling climes, Shedding the blood of bloodless crimes— Lurid lowering ’mid the blue, Torrid towering toward the true, I am the Smoke King, I am black. I am the Smoke King, I am black! I am darkening with song, I am hearkening to wrong! I will be black as blackness can— The blacker the mantle, the mightier the man! For blackness was ancient ere whiteness began. I am daubing God in night, I am swabbing Hell in white: I am the Smoke King I am black. I am the Smoke King I am black! I am cursing ruddy morn, I am hearsing hearts unborn: Souls unto me are as stars in a night, I whiten my black men—I blacken my white! What’s the hue of a hide to a man in his might? Hail! great, gritty, grimy hands— Sweet Christ, pity toiling lands! I am the Smoke King I am black.

Of course you have faced the dilemma: it is announced, they all smirk and rise. If they are ultra, they remove their hats and look ecstatic; then they look at you. What shall you do?Noblesse oblige; you cannot be boorish, or ungracious; and too, after all it is your country and you do love its ideals if not all of its realities. Now, then, I have thought of a way out: Arise, gracefully remove your hat, and tilt your head. Then sing as follows, powerfully and with deep unction. They’ll hardly note the little changes and their feelings and your conscience will thus be saved: My country tis of thee, Late land of slavery, Of thee I sing. Land where my father’s pride Slept where my mother died, From every mountain side Let freedom ring! My native country thee Land of the slave set free, Thy fame I love. I love thy rocks and rills And o’er thy hate which chills, My heart with purpose thrills, To rise above. Let laments swell the breeze And wring from all the trees Sweet freedom’s song. Let laggard tongues awake, Let all who hear partake, Let Southern silence quake, The sound prolong. Our fathers’ God to thee Author of Liberty, To thee we sing Soon may our land be bright, With Freedom’s happy light Protect us by Thy might, Great God our King.

Dedicated to Kwame Nkrumah I was a little boy, at home with strangers. I liked my playmates, and knew well, Whence all their parents came; From England, Scotland, royal France From Germany and oft by chance The humble Emerald Isle. But my brown skin and close-curled hair Was alien, and how it grew, none knew; Few tried to say, some dropped a wonderful word or stray; Some laughed and stared. And then it came: I dreamed. I placed together all I knew All hints and slurs together drew. I dreamed. I made one picture of what nothing seemed I shuddered in dumb terror In silence screamed, For now it seemed this I had dreamed; How up from Hell, a land had leaped A wretched land, all scorched and seamed Covered with ashes, chained with pain Streaming with blood, in horror lain Its very air a shriek of death And agony of hurt. Anon I woke, but in one corner of my soul I stayed asleep. Forget I could not, But never would I remember That hell-hoist ghost Of slavery and woe. I lived and grew, I worked and hoped I planned and wandered, gripped and coped With every doubt but one that slept Yet clamoured to awaken. I became old; old, worn and gray; Along my hard and weary way Rolled war and pestilence, war again; I looked on Poverty and foul Disease I walked with Death and yet I knew There stirred a doubt: Were all dreams true? And what in truth was Africa? One cloud-swept day a Seer appeared, All closed and veiled as me he hailed And bid me make three journeys to the world Seeking all through their lengthened links The endless Riddle of the Sphinx. I went to Moscow; Ignorance grown wise taught me Wisdom; I went to Peking: Poverty grown rich Showed me the wealth of Work I came to Accra. Here at last, I looked back on my Dream; I heard the Voice that loosed The Long-looked dungeons of my soul I sensed that Africa had come Not up from Hell, but from the sum of Heaven’s glory. I lifted up mine eyes to Ghana And swept the hills with high Hosanna; Above the sun my sight took flight Till from that pinnacle of light I saw dropped down this earth of crimson, green and gold Roaring with color, drums and song. Happy with dreams and deeds worth more than doing Around me velvet faces loomed Burnt by the kiss of everlasting suns Under great stars of midnight glory Trees danced, and foliage sang; The lilies hallelujah rang Where robed with rule on Golden Stool The gold-crowned Priests with duty done Pour high libations to the sun And danced to gods. Red blood flowed rare ’neath close-clung hair While subtle perfume filled the air And whirls and whirls of tiny curls Crowned heads. Yet Ghana shows its might and power Not in its color nor its flower But in its wondrous breadth of soul Its Joy of Life Its selfless role Of giving. School and clinic, home and hall Road and garden bloom and call Socialism blossoms bold On Communism centuries old. I lifted my last voice and cried I cried to heaven as I died: O turn me to the Golden Horde Summon all western nations Toward the Rising Sun. From reeking West whose day is done, Who stink and stagger in their dung Toward Africa, China, India’s strand Where Kenya and Himalaya stand And Nile and Yang-tze roll: Turn every yearning face of man. Come with us, dark America: The scum of Europe battened here And drowned a dream Made fetid swamp a refuge seem: Enslaved the Black and killed the Red And armed the Rich to loot the Dead; Worshipped the whores of Hollywood Where once the Virgin Mary stood And lynched the Christ. Awake, awake, O sleeping world Honor the sun; Worship the stars, those vaster suns Who rule the night Where black is bright And all unselfish work is right And Greed is Sin. And Africa leads on: Pan Africa!