XIV
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
· (no date)
Published 01/07/1880
Part of The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim's Point
We were black, we were black!
We had no claim to love and bliss:
What marvel, if each turned to lack?
They wrung my cold hands out of his,—
They dragged him.. where?.. I crawled to touch
His blood's mark in the dust!.. not much,
Ye pilgrim-souls,.. though plain as this!