Helene Johnson—The Road
Ah, little road all whirry in the breeze,
A leaping day hill lost among the trees,
The bleeding note of rapture streaming thrush
Caught in a drowsy hush
And stretched out in a single singing line of dusky song.
Ah little road, brown as my race is brown,
Your trodden beauty like our trodden pride,
Dust of the dust, they must not bruise you down.
Rise to one brimming golden, spilling cry!
In honor of Black History Month, we will post an inspirational cultural item each day.