Claude McKay

Bow down my soul in worship very low And in the holy silences be lost. Bow down before the marble man of woe, Bow down before the singing angel host. What jewelled glory fills my spirit’s eye! What golden grandeur moves the depths of me! The soaring arches lift me up on high Taking my breath with their rare symmetry.

Bow down my soul and let the wondrous light Of beauty bathe thee from her lofty throne, Bow down before the wonder of man’s might. Bow down in worship, humble and alone; Bow lowly down before the sacred sight Of man’s divinity alive in stone.

Far from this foreign Easter damp and chilly My soul steals to a pear-shaped plot of ground, Where gleamed the lilac-tinted Easter lily Soft-scented in the air for yards around; Alone, without a hint of guardian leaf! Just like a fragile bell of silver rime, It burst the tomb for freedom sweet and brief In the young pregnant year at Eastertime; And many thought it was a sacred sign, And some called it the resurrection flower; And I, a pagan, worshiped at its shrine, Yielding my heart unto its perfumed power.

At first you’ll joy to see the playful snow, Like white moths trembling on the tropic air, Or waters of the hills that softly flow Gracefully falling down a shining stair. And when the fields and streets are covered white And the wind-worried void is chilly, raw, Or underneath a spell of heat and light The cheerless frozen spots begin to thaw, Like me you’ll long for home, where birds’ glad song Means flowering lanes and leas and spaces dry, And tender thoughts and feelings fine and strong, Beneath a vivid silver-flecked blue sky.

Swift swallows sailing from the Spanish main, O rain-birds racing merrily away From hill-tops parched with heat and sultry plain Of wilting plants and fainting flowers, say-- When at the noon-hour from the chapel school The children dash and scamper down the dale, Scornful of teacher’s rod and binding rule Forever broken and without avail, Do they still stop beneath the giant tree To gather locusts in their childish greed, And chuckle when they break the pods to see The golden powder clustered round the seed?

For one brief golden moment rare like wine, The gracious city swept across the line; Oblivious of the color of my skin, Forgetting that I was an alien guest, She bent to me, my hostile heart to win, Caught me in passion to her pillowy breast; The great, proud city, seized with a strange love, Bowed down for one flame hour my pride to prove.

O sweet are tropic lands for waking dreams! There time and life move lazily along. There by the banks of blue-and-silver streams Grass-sheltered crickets chirp incessant song, Gay-colored lizards loll all through the day, Their tongues outstretched for careless little flies, And swarthy children in the fields at play, Look upward laughing at the smiling skies. A breath of idleness is in the air That casts a subtle spell upon all things, And love and mating-time are everywhere, And wonder to life’s commonplaces clings. The fluttering humming-bird darts through the trees And dips his long beak in the big bell-flowers, The leisured buzzard floats upon the breeze, Riding a crescent cloud for endless hours, The sea beats softly on the emerald strands-- O sweet for quiet dreams are tropic lands!

Aleta mentions in her tender letters, Among a chain of quaint and touching things, That you are feeble, weighted down with fetters, And given to strange deeds and mutterings. No longer without trace or thought of fear, Do you leap to and ride the rebel roan; But have become the victim of grim care, With three brown beauties to support alone. But none the less will you be in my mind, Wild May that cantered by the risky ways, With showy head-cloth flirting in the wind, From market in the glad December days; Wild May of whom even other girls could rave Before sex tamed your spirit, made you slave.

It was the silver, heart-enveloping view Of the mysterious sea-line far away, Seen only on a gleaming gold-white day, That made it dear and beautiful to you. And Laura loved it for the little hill, Where the quartz sparkled fire, barren and dun, Whence in the shadow of the dying sun, She contemplated Hallow’s wooden mill. While Danny liked the sheltering high grass, In which he lay upon a clear dry night, To hear and see, screened skilfully from sight, The happy lovers of the valley pass. But oh! I loved it for the big round moon That swung out of the clouds and swooned aloft, Burning with passion, gloriously soft, Lighting the purple flowers of fragrant June.