The Little Black Boy

My mother bore me in the southern wild
And I am black, but O my soul is white!
White as an angel is the English child
But I am black, as if bereaved of light

My mother taught me underneath a tree
And, sitting down before the heat of day
She took me on her lap and kissèd me
And, pointing to the East, began to say:

‘Look on the rising sun: there God does live
And gives His light, and gives His heat away
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday

‘And we arе put on earth a little space
That wе may learn to bear the beams of love;
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove

‘For, when our souls have learned the heat to bear
The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice
Saying, “Come out from the grove, my love and care
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.”’

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me
And thus I say to little English boy
When I from black, and he from white cloud free
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy

I’ll shade him from the heat till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our Father’s knee;
And then I’ll stand and stroke his silver hair
And be like him, and he will then love me