Poetry

(To W. E. B. DuBois)

I’ve known rivers: I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young. I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep. I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it. I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I’ve known rivers: Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

Aunt Sue has a head full of stories. Aunt Sue has a whole heart full of stories. Summer nights on the front porch Aunt Sue cuddles a brown-faced child to her bosom And tells him stories.

Black slaves Working in the hot sun, And black slaves Walking in the dewy night, And black slaves Singing sorrow songs on the banks of a mighty river Mingle themselves softly In the flow of old Aunt Sue’s voice, Mingle themselves softly In the dark shadows that cross and recross Aunt Sue’s stories.

And the dark-faced child, listening, Knows that Aunt Sue’s stories are real stories. He knows that Aunt Sue Never got her stories out of any book at all, But that they came Right out of her own life.

And the dark-faced child is quiet Of a summer night Listening to Aunt Sue’s stories.