And, marvelling at it all,
See strange black people gathered round a grave.
Then, without question, hurrying up the lane,
They seek once more their own—
That world in which is known
No fear of death, nor thought of change or pain.
Where still they call and answer, still they play,
And summer is ever there;
But I—I never dare
Pass through those fields, retrace the well-known way,