| James Weldon Johnson, ed. (1871–1938). The Book of American Negro Poetry. 1922. |
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| Tuskegee |
| | | Leslie Pinckney Hill |
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| WHEREFORE this busy labor without rest? | |
| Is it an idle dream to which we cling, | |
| Here where a thousand dusky toilers sing | |
| Unto the world their hope? “Build we our best. | |
| By hand and thought,” they cry, “although unblessed.” | 5 |
| So the great engines throb, and anvils ring, | |
| And so the thought is wedded to the thing; | |
| But what shall be the end, and what the test? | |
| Dear God, we dare not answer, we can see | |
| Not many steps ahead, but this we know— | 10 |
| If all our toilsome building is in vain, | |
| Availing not to set our manhood free, | |
| If envious hate roots out the seed we sow, | |
| The South will wear eternally a stain. | |
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