Claude McKay — My Mother II

The dawn departs, the morning is begun, The trades come whispering from off the seas, The fields of corn are golden in the sun, The dark-brown tassels fluttering in the breeze; The bell is sounding and the children pass, Frog-leaping, skipping, shouting, laughing shrill, Down the red road, over the pasture-grass, Up to the school-house crumbling on the hill. The older folk are at their peaceful toil, Some pulling up the weeds, some plucking corn, And others breaking up the sun-baked soil. Float, faintly-scented breeze, at early morn Over the earth where mortals sow and reap-- Beneath its breast my mother lies asleep.