When it is finally ours, this freedom, this liberty
this beautiful
and terrible thing, needful to man as air,
usuable as the earth; when it belongs at last to our
children,
when it is truly instict, brainmatter, diastole, systole,
reflex action, when it is finally won; when it is more
than the gaudy mumbo jumbo of politicians:
this man, this Douglass, this former slave, this Negro
beaten to his knees, exiled, visioning a world
where none is lonely, none hunted, alien,
this man, superb in love and logic, this man
shall be remembered - oh, not with statues' rhetoric,
not with legends and poems and wreaths of bronze alone,
but with the lives grown out of his life, the lives
fleshing his dream of the needful beautiful thing.
by Robert Hayden
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