The Little Black Boy


My mother bore me in the southern wild,

And I am black, but O! my soul is white;

White as an angel is the English child

But I am black, as if bereav’d of light


My mother taught me underneath a tree,

And sitting down before the heat of the day,

She took me on her lap and kissed me,

And pointing to the east, began to say:


‘Look on the rising sun: there God does live,

‘And gives his light, and gives his heat away;

‘And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive

‘Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.


‘And we are put on earth a little space,

‘That we may learn to bear the beams of love;

‘And these black bodies and this sunburnt face

‘Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.


‘For when our souls have learn’d the heat to bear,

‘The cloud will vanish; we shall hear his voice,

‘Saying: ‘‘Come out from the grove my love and care

‘’’And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice’’.’


This did my mother say, and kissed me’

And thus I say to little English boy:

When I from black and he from white cloud free,

And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,


I’ll shade him from the heat, till he can bear

To lean in joy upon our father’s knew:

And then I’ll stand and stroke his silver hair,

And be like him, and he will then love me.