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    Do you suppose the sun here lavishes his heat
    For nothing, in these islands by the sea? 
    No!  The great green-mottled melons ripen in the fields,
    Bleeding with scarlet, juicy pith deliriously;
    And the exuberant yams grow golden, thick and sweet;
    And white potatoes, in grave-rows,
    With leaves as rough as cat tongues;
    And pearly onions, and cabbages
    With white flesh, sweet as chicken meat.

    These the black boatmen bring to town
    On barges, heaped with severed breasts of leaves,
    Driven by put-put engines
    Down the long canals, quavering with song,
    With hail and chuckle to the docks along,
    Seeing their dark faces down below
    Reduplicated in the sunset glow,
    While from the shore stretch out the quivering lines
    Of the flat, palm-like, reflected pines
    That inland lie like ranges of dark hills in lines. 
    And so to town—­
    Weaving odd baskets of sweet grass,
    Lazily and slow,
    To sell in the arcaded market,
    Where men sold their fathers not so long ago. 
    For all their poverty,
    These patient black men live
    A life rich in warm colors of the fields,
    Sunshine and hearty foods,
    Delighted with the gifts that earth can give,
    And old tales of Plateye and Bre’r Rabbit;
    While the golden-velvet cornpone browns
    Underneath the lid among hot ashes,
    Where the groundnuts roast,
    Round shadowy fires at nights,
    With tales of graveyard ghost,
    While eery spirituals ring,
    And organ voices sing,
    And sticks knock maddening rhythms on the floor
    To shuffling youngsters “cutting” buck-and-wing;
    Dogs bark;
    And dog-eyed pickaninnies peek about the door.

    Sundays, along the moss-draped roads,
    The beribboned black folk go to church
    By threes and twos, carrying their shoes,
    With orange turbans, ginghams, rainbow hats;
    Then bucks flaunt tiger-lily ties and watchet suits,
    Smoking cob pipes and faintly sweet cheroots. 
    Wagons with oval wheels and kitchen chairs screech by,
    Where Joseph-coated white-teethed maidens sit
    Demurely,
    While the old mule rolls back the ivory of his eye. 
    Soon from the whitewashed churches roll away
    Among the live oak trees,
    Rivers of melancholy harmonies,
    Full of the sorrows of the centuries
    The white man hears, but cannot feel.

    But it is always Sunday on sea-islands. 
    Plantation bells, calling the pickers from the fields,
    Are like old temple gongs;
    And the wind tells monodies among the pines,
    Playing upon their strings the ocean’s songs;
    The ducks fly in long, trailing lines;
    Skeows squonk and marsh-hens