The fabric to spin,
And Hope was the spinner
At the Old Cotton Gin.
With his Hope in the future, his Heart in the past,
He worked for his people and wove to the last;
And, tottering, he stood through the rift and the reel
And he died as he lived—with his hand on the wheel,
And sighing, his soul passed peacefully through,
As pure as the last lock of lint in the flue.
The Heart, whose beat