The North that had already now begun To mold his body into crucified Christ’s, Hung fables about those hours⁠—saw him move Symbolically, kiss a negro child, Do this and that, say things he never said, To swell the sparse, hard outlines of the event With sentimental omen. It was not so. He stood on the jail-porch in carpet-slippers, Clad in a loose ill-fitting suit of black, Tired farmer waiting for his team to come. He left one last written message: