- Free-born, I, of a free-born race; yet nevermore is my spirit free:
There is a still, small voice within ___ the blood of Ishmael, cry-
- ing in me.
- (Ishmael, dust in your lonely grave these centuries gone, by a
- weary way
- Your sons must wander to find their rest; and blood of your
- blood is my heart today.)
Here, in the hard-bound city-ways, with the endless clatter of
- wheel on wheel,
- Year after year, till the soul is stunned, the faint heart sick,
- and the senses reel;
How do I know when the cold earth turns to welcome the
- spring in the waiting north?
- When, under languorous southern skies, the sensuous dogwood
- blossoms forth?
- How do I know when the warm tide throbs on the stark, gray
- shores of the eastern coast?
- And a young wind sings o'er the highest peak of that rugged
- chain of the Rocky host?
By the pulsing foot and the troubling heart that ever must chafe
- and fret in me;
By the sign that the Lord unto Hagar gave: that the free are
- bond, and are bond, yet free.
(Ishmael dust and forgotten dust, in your narrow grave on
- some eastern hill
- Your sons still wander, because they must, and still are out-cast
- because they will.
And mine is ever the bond-child's mark, till the last gray dawn
- of my life is past,
- Till my feet are sealed in some quiet place, and dust of your
- dust is my heart at last.)