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The Crisis, January 1932
Harlem John Henry mused into the sky,
"Beauty must be, must be, else life is dust."
Outspread white wings that cleave the sullen gray,
Myriads of double wings, swooping on in threes,
Darting tralineate, far, near, in threes, 5
Twelve, thirty, sixty. And converges now
A flock of eagles, zooming crescendo roars;
In threes and twelves, thrice tens, and six times ten;
Six hundred more make dark the air, and cloud
That lone sarcophagus commemorative of him 10
Who cried in pain of soul, "Let us have peace!"
Beauty must be. But is this threat beauty?
Harlem John Henry hears the sinister drone
Of sextuples of planes. Sings jeeringly- 15
"I've got wings,
You've got wings,
All God's chillen got wings!" 20
Lowers his gaze from dun rain-clouds of May,
Where scarring wings insult the quiet of spring,
And laughs aloud at that white pediment,
On whose Corinthian beauty blazons tall
The hope-fraught words that make the Hudson sneer, 25
And Harlem John Henry rock with mirthless mirth.
Beauty and peace? Beauty and War? Yet no.
Beyond the clouds that drift athwart the wings,
An ancient scene seeps in John Henry's soul. 30
Above the crashing zoom of mighty sound,
John Henry hears a throbbing, vibrant note-
"Boom ba boom boom
Boom ba boom boom
Boom ba boom!" 35
Jungle bamboula beats the undertone
To all that fierce hoarse hiss above the sky.
Cruel corsairs of foul, slave-weighted ships;
Deep-throated wails from black, stench-crowded depths- 40
"Sometimes I feel like a motherless child,
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child,
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child,