Song of the Son

    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.