No image of bronze or marble green with the rain To Shepherd Heyward, free negro of Harper’s Ferry, And even the books, the careful, ponderous histories, That turn live men into dummies with smiles of wax Thoughtfully posed against a photographer’s background In the act of signing a treaty or drawing a sword, Tell little of what he was. And yet his face Grey with pain and puzzled at sudden death Stares out at us through the bookworm-dust of the years With an uncomprehending wonder, a blind surprise. “I was getting along,” it says, “I was doing well. I had six thousand dollars saved in the bank. It was a good town, a nice town, I liked the folks And they liked me. I had a good job there, too. On Sundays I used to dress myself up slick enough To pass the plate in church, but I wasn’t proud Not even when trashy niggers called me Mister, Though I could hear the old grannies over their snuff Mumbling along, ‘Look, chile, there goes Shepherd Heyward. Ain’t him fine in he Sunday clo’es⁠—ain’t him sassy and fine? You grow up decent and don’t play ball in the street,