W. E. B. DU BOIS
"The Song of the Smoke"

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I am the smoke king,

I am black.

      I am swinging in the sky,

      I am ringing worlds on high;

      I am the thought of the throbbing mills,

      I am the soul of the Soul toil kills,

      I am the ripple of trading rills.

Up I’m curling from the sod,

I am whirling home to God.

I am the smoke king,

I am black.

I am the smoke king,

I am black.

      I am wreathing broken hearts,

      I am sheathing devils’ darts;

      Dark inspiration of iron times,

      Wedding the toil of toiling climes,

      Shedding the blood of bloodless crimes,

Down I lower in the blue,

Up I tower toward the true.

I am the smoke king,

I am black.

I am the smoke king,

I am black.

      I am darkening with song,

      I am hearkening to wrong;

      I will be black as blackness can,

      The blacker the mantle the mightier the man,

      My purpl’ing midnights no day dawn may ban.

I am carving God in night,

I am painting Hell in white.

I am the smoke king,

I am black.

I am the smoke king,

I am black.

      I am cursing ruddy morn,

      I am hearsing hearts unborn;

      Souls unto me are as mists in the night,

      I whiten my black men, I blacken my white,

      What’s the hue of a hide to a man in his might!

Hail, then, gritty, grimy hands,

Sweet Christ, pity toiling lands!

Hail to the smoke king

Hail to the black!