The Weary Blues Read Online Free PDF Page A

was a red man one time,
    But the white men came.
    I was a black man, too,
    But the white men came.
    They drove me out of the forest.
    They took me away from the jungles.
    I lost my trees.
    I lost my silver moons.
    Now they’ve caged me
    In the circus of civilization.
    Now I herd with the many—
    Caged in the circus of civilization.

AFRAID
    We cry among the skyscrapers
    As our ancestors
    Cried among the palms in Africa
    Because we are alone,
    It is night,
    And we’re afraid.

POEM
        For the portrait of an African boy after the manner of
                                            Gauguin
    All the tom-toms of the jungles beat in my blood,
    And all the wild hot moons of the jungles shine in my soul.
    I am afraid of this civilization—
        So hard,
                   So strong,
                             So cold.

SUMMER NIGHT
    The sounds
    Of the Harlem night
    Drop one by one into stillness.
    The last player-piano is closed.
    The last victrola ceases with the
    “Jazz Boy Blues.”
    The last crying baby sleeps
    And the night becomes
    Still as a whispering heartbeat.
    I toss
    Without rest in the darkness,
    Weary as the tired night,
    My soul
    Empty as the silence,
    Empty with a vague,
    Aching emptiness,
    Desiring,
    Needing someone,
    Something.
    I toss without rest
    In the darkness
    Until the new dawn,
    Wan and pale,
    Descends like a white mist
    Into the court-yard.

DISILLUSION
    I would be simple again,
    Simple and clean
    Like the earth,
    Like the rain,
    Nor ever know,
    Dark Harlem,
    The wild laughter
    Of your mirth
    Nor the salt tears
    Of your pain.
    Be kind to me,
    Oh, great dark city.
    Let me forget.
    I will not come
    To you again.

DANSE AFRICAINE
    The low beating of the tom-toms,
    The slow beating of the tom-toms,
        Low … slow
        Slow … low—
        Stirs your blood.
                   Dance!
    A night-veiled girl
        Whirls softly into a
        Circle of light.
        Whirls softly … slowly,
    Like a wisp of smoke around the fire—
        And the tom-toms beat,
        And the tom-toms beat,
    And the low beating of the tom-toms
        Stirs your blood.

THE WHITE ONES
    I do not hate you,
    For your faces are beautiful, too.
    I do not hate you,
    Your faces are whirling lights of loveliness and splendor, too.
    Yet why do you torture me,
    O, white strong ones,
    Why do you torture me?

MOTHER TO SON
    Well, son, I’ll tell you:
    Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
    It’s had tacks in it,
    And splinters,
    And boards torn up,
    And places with no carpet on the floor—
    Bare.
    But all the time
    I’se been a-climbin’ on,
    And reachin’ landin’s,
    And turnin’ corners,
    And sometimes goin’ in the dark
    Where there ain’t been no light.
    So boy, don’t you turn back.
    Don’t you set down on the steps
    ’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
    Don’t you fall now—
    For I’se still goin’, honey,
    I’se still climbin’,
    And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

POEM
    We have tomorrow
    Bright before us
    Like a flame.
    Yesterday
    A night-gone thing,
    A sun-down name.
    And dawn-today
    Broad arch above the road we came.

EPILOGUE
    I, too, sing America.
    I am the darker brother.
    They send me to eat in the kitchen
    When company comes,
    But I laugh,
    And eat well,
    And grow strong.
    Tomorrow,
    I’ll sit at the table
    When company comes.
    Nobody’ll dare
    Say to me,
    “Eat in the kitchen,”
    Then.
    Besides,
    They’ll see how beautiful I am
    And be ashamed,—
    I, too, am America.

A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
    Langston Hughes was born in Joplin, Missouri, in 1902. After graduation from high school, he spent a year in Mexico with his father, then a year studying at Columbia University. His first poem in a nationally known magazine was “The Negro Speaks of Rivers,” which appeared in
Crisis
in 1921. In 1925, he was awarded the First Prize for Poetry from the