A poem to ponder our Season of Healing, Justice, and Reconciliation:
Let
America Be America Again
by Langston Hughes ©1935
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used
to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the
plain
Seeking a home where he
himself is free.
(America never was America to
me.)
Let America be the dream the
dreamers dreamed—
Let it be that great strong
land of love
Where never kings connive nor
tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by
one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land
where Liberty
Is crowned with no false
patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and
life is free,
Equality is in the air we
breathe.
(There’s never been equality
for me,
Nor freedom in this “homeland
of the free.”)
Say, who are you that mumbles
in the dark?
And who are you that draws
your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled
and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing
slavery’s scars.
I am the red man driven from
the land,
I am the immigrant clutching
the hope I seek—
And finding only the same old
stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty
crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of
strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient
endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of
grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the
ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the
pay!
Of owning everything for
one’s own greed!
I am the farmer, bondsman to
the soil.
I am the worker sold to the
machine.
I am the Negro, servant to
you all.
I am the people, humble,
hungry, mean—
Hungry yet today despite the
dream.
Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got
ahead,
The poorest worker bartered
through the years.
Yet I’m the one who dreamt
our basic dream
In the Old World while still
a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong,
so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty
daring sings
In every brick and stone, in
every furrow turned
That’s made America the land
it has become.
O, I’m the man who sailed
those early seas
In search of what I meant to
be my home—
For I’m the one who left dark
Ireland’s shore,
And Poland’s plain, and
England’s grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa’s
strand I came
To build a “homeland of the
free.”
The free?
Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when
we strike?
The millions who have nothing
for our pay?
For all the dreams we’ve
dreamed
And all the songs we’ve sung
And all the hopes we’ve held
And all the flags we’ve hung,
The millions who have nothing
for our pay—
Except the dream that’s
almost dead today.
O, let America be America
again—
The land that never has been
yet—
And yet must be—the land
where every man is free.
The land that’s mine—the poor
man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME—
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose
faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry,
whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty
dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name
you choose—
The steel of freedom does not
stain.
From those who live like
leeches on the people’s lives,
We must take back our land
again,
America!
O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to
me,
And yet I swear this oath—
America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of
our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft,
and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the
plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless
plain—
All, all the stretch of these
great green states—
And make America again!
Icon of Saint Matthias by the Workshop of Simone Martini 