Frances | Mysite

Bury Me in a Free Land

I ask no monument, proud and high,
To arrest the gaze of the passers-by;
All that my yearning spirit craves,
Is bury me not in a land of slaves.

Our masters always tried to hide Book learning from our eyes; Knowledge didn’t agree with slavery— ‘Twould make us all too wise.

Let me make the songs for the weary,
Amid life’s fever and fret,
Till hearts shall relax their tension,
And careworn brows forget.

Saw you the sad, imploring eye?
Its every glance was pain,
As if a storm of agony
Were sweeping through the brain.