The hills are wroth; the stones have scored you bitterly Because you looked upon the naked sun Oblivious of them, because you did not see The trees you touched or mountains that you walked upon.
But there will come a day of darkness in the land, A day wherein remembered sun alone comes through To mark the hills; then perhaps you’ll understand Just how it was you drew from them and they from you.
For there will be a bent old woman in that day Who, feeling something of this country in her bones, Will leave her house tapping with a stick, who will (they say) Come back to seek the girl she was in these familiar stones.
All that night I walked alone and wept. I tore a rose and dropped it on the ground. My heart was lead; all that night I kept Listening to hear a dreadful sound.
A tree bent down and dew dripped from its hair. The earth was warm; dawn came solemnly. I stretched full-length upon the grass and there I said your name but silence answered me.
A tree is more than a shadow Blurred against the sky, More than ink spilled on the fringe Of white clouds floating by. A tree is more than an April design Or a blighted winter bough Where love and music used to be. A tree is something in me, Very still and lonely now.
I have seen a lovely thing Stark before a whip of weather: The tree that was so wistful after spring Beating barren twigs together.
The birds that came there one by one, The sensuous leaves that used to sway And whisper there at night, all are gone, Each has vanished in its way.
And this whip is on my heart; There is no sound that it allows, No little song that I may start But I hear the beating of dead boughs.
Go through the gates with closed eyes. Stand erect and let your black face front the west. Drop the axe and leave the timber where it lies; A woodman on the hill must have his rest.
Go where leaves are lying brown and wet. Forget her warm arms and her breast who mothered you, And every face you ever loved forget. Close your eyes; walk bravely through.
Sweet timber land Where soft winds blow The high green tree And fan away the fog! Ah fragrant stream Where thirsty creatures go And strong black men Hew the heavy log!
Oh broken house Crumbling there alone, Wanting me! Oh silent tree Must I always be A wild bird Riding the wind And screaming bitterly?
Arna Bontemps was an American poet, novelist, and librarian associated with the Harlem Renaissance. His poetry often highlights African American heritage, historical events, and the rhythms of everyday life. Bontemps published several poetry collections, including 'Personals' and 'Black Thunder,' and he edited influential anthologies of African American literature. He served as a librarian at Fisk University, where he helped preserve and promote Black literary traditions. His work is noted for its lyrical language and its engagement with themes of resilience, memory, and community. Bontemps' contributions to literature and librarianship made him a significant figure in 20th-century American letters.
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