I want to see the slim palm-trees, Pulling at the clouds With little pointed fingers . . . I want to see lithe Negro girls, Etched dark against the sky While sunset lingers. I want to hear the silent sands, Singing to the moon Before the Sphinx-still face . . . I want to hear the chanting Around a heathen fire Of a strange black race. I want to breathe the Lotus flow'r, Sighing to the stars With tendrils drinking at the Nile . . . I want to feel the surging Of my sad people's soul Hidden by a minstrel-smile. |