Song of the Son

Pour O pour that parting soul in songO pour it in the sawdust glow of

Into the velvet pine-smoke air tonight,

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 proligate of pines,

Now hust before an epoch's sun

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

Though late,

O soil, it is not too late

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

One plum was saved for me, one seed becomesan everlasting song, a singing tree,

Caroling softly souls of slavery,

What they were, and what they are to me,

Caroling softly souls of slavery.