by
Langston Hughes (1938)
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 black man 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 black man, 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
abuse 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
0739, Thursday,
17 11. 16
we need to kick America in the balls Great is our prejudice our scribble It never was It may yet be
