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Robert Hayden - The Ballad Of Nat Turner
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Then fled, O brethren, the wicked juba 
       and wandered wandered far 
from curfew joys in the Dismal’s night. 
       Fool of St. Elmo’s fire 


In scary night I wandered, praying, 
       Lord God my harshener, 
speak to me now or let me die; 
       speak, Lord, to this mourner. 


And came at length to livid trees 
       where Ibo warriors 
hung shadowless, turning in wind 
       that moaned like Africa, 


Their belltongue bodies dead, their eyes 
       alive with the anger deep 
in my own heart. Is this the sign, 
       the sign forepromised me? 


The spirits vanished. Afraid and lonely 
       I wandered on in blackness. 
Speak to me now or let me die. 
       Die, whispered the blackness. 


And wild things gasped and scuffled in 
       the night; seething shapes 
of evil frolicked upon the air. 
       I reeled with fear, I prayed. 


Sudden brightness clove the preying 
       darkness, brightness that was 
itself a golden darkness, brightness 
       so bright that it was darkness. 


And there were angels, their faces hidden 
       from me, angels at war 
with one another, angels in dazzling 
       combat. And oh the splendor, 


The fearful splendor of that warring. 
       Hide me, I cried to rock and bramble. 
Hide me, the rock, the bramble cried. . . . 
       How tell you of that holy battle? 


The shock of wing on wing and sword 
       on sword was the tumult of 
a taken city burning. I cannot 
       say how long they strove, 


For the wheel in a turning wheel which is time 
       in eternity had ceased 
its whirling, and owl and moccasin, 
       panther and nameless beast 


And I were held like creatures fixed 
       in flaming, in fiery amber. 
But I saw I saw oh many of 
       those mighty beings waver, 


Waver and fall, go streaking down 
       into swamp water, and the water 
hissed and steamed and bubbled and locked 
       shuddering shuddering over 


The fallen and soon was motionless. 
       Then that massive light 
began a-folding slowly in 
       upon itself, and I 


Beheld the conqueror faces and, lo, 
       they were like mine, I saw 
they were like mine and in joy and terror 
       wept, praising praising Jehovah. 


Oh praised my honer, harshener 
       till a sleep came over me, 
a sleep heavy as death. And when 
       I awoke at last free 


And purified, I rose and prayed 
       and returned after a time 
to the blazing fields, to the humbleness. 
       And bided my time.
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