Jean Toomer quotes

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Meanwhile, the men, with vestiges of pomp,
Race memories of king and caravan,
O singers, resinous and soft your songs
Above the sacred whisper of the pines,
some genius of the South
With blood-hot eyes and cane-lipped scented mouth,
Superstition saw
Something it had never seen before:
And there, a field rat, startled, squealing bleeds,
His belly close to ground. I see the blade,
one seed becomes
O land and soil, red soil and sweet-gum tree,
So scant of grass, so profligate of pines,
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