The Lynching
Robert Owens, Claude McKay
His spirit in smoke ascended to high heaven
His father, by the cruelest way of pain
Had bidden him to his bosom once again;
The awful sin remained still unforgiven
All night a bright and solitary star
(Perchance the one that ever guided him
Yet gave him up at last to Fate's wild whim)
Hung pitifully o'er the swinging char
Day dawned, and soon the mixed crowds came to view
The ghastly body swaying in the sun:
The women thronged to look, but never a one
Showed sorrow in her eyes of steely blue;
And little lads, lynchers that were to be
Danced round the dreadful thing in fiendish glee