Song of the Son

　　by Jean Toomer

　　 Pour O pour that parting soul in song，

　　 O pour it in the sawdust glow of night，

　　 Into the velvet pine-smoke air to-night，

　　 And let the valley carry it along.

　　 And let the valley carry it along.

　　 O land and soil， red soil and sweet-gum tree，

　　 So scant of grass， so profligate of pines，

　　 Now just before an epoch's sun declines

　　 Thy son， in time， I have returned to thee，

　　 Thy son， I have in time returned to thee.

　　 In time， for though the sun is setting on

　　 A song-lit race of slaves， it has not set；

　　 Though late， O soil， it is not too late yet

　　 To catch thy plaintive soul， leaving， soon gone，

　　 Leaving， to catch thy plaintive soul soon gone.

　　 O Negro slaves， dark purple ripened plums，

　　 Squeezed， and bursting in the pine-wood air，

　　 Passing before they stripped the old tree bare

　　 One plum was saved for me， one seed becomes

　　 An everlasting song， a singing tree，

　　 Caroling softly souls of slavery，

　　 What they were， and what they are to me，

　　 Caroling softly souls of slavery.