To The Negro Farmers of the United States

God washes clean the souls and hearts of you,

His favored ones, whose backs bend o’er the soil,

Which grudging gives to them requite for toil

In sober graces and in vision true.

God places in your hands the pow’r to do

A service sweet. Your gift supreme to foil

The bare-fanged wolves of hunger in the moil

Of Life’s activities. Yet all too few

Your glorious band, clean sprung from Nature’s heart;

The hope of hungry thousands, in whose breast

Dwells fear that you should fail. God placed no dart

Of war within your hands, but pow’r to start

Tears, praise, love, joy, enwoven in a crest

To crown you glorious, brave ones of the soil.