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 | The book of American negro poetry, |  |
IV. IV
The Way
He could not tell the way he came,
Because his chart was lost:
Yet all his way was paved with flame
From the bourne he crossed.
Because his chart was lost:
Yet all his way was paved with flame
From the bourne he crossed.
62
He did not know the way to go,
Because he had no map:
He followed where the winds blow,—
And the April sap.
Because he had no map:
He followed where the winds blow,—
And the April sap.
He never knew upon his brow
The secret that he bore,—
And laughs away the mystery now
The dark's at his door.
The secret that he bore,—
And laughs away the mystery now
The dark's at his door.
| The book of American negro poetry, | |