garden arcana

Next up someone is going to claim that the Narnia series isn't kids books.

By Langston Hughes

Let America be America again.

Let it be the dream it used to be.

Let it be the pioneer on the plain

Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—

Let it be that great strong land of love

Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme

That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty

Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,

But opportunity is real, and life is free,

Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There’s never been equality for me,

Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?

And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,

I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars.

I am the red man driven from the land,

I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—

And finding only the same old stupid plan

Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,

Tangled in that ancient endless chain

Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!

Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!

Of work the men! Of take the pay!

Of owning everything for one’s own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.

I am the worker sold to the machine.

I am the Negro, servant to you all.

I am the people, humble, hungry, mean—

Hungry yet today despite the dream.

Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers!

I am the man who never got ahead,

The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream

In the Old World while still a serf of kings,

Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,

That even yet its mighty daring sings

In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned

That’s made America the land it has become.

O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas

In search of what I meant to be my home—

For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore,

And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea,

And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came

To build a “homeland of the free.”

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?

Surely not me? The millions on relief today?

The millions shot down when we strike?

The millions who have nothing for our pay?

For all the dreams we’ve dreamed

And all the songs we’ve sung

And all the hopes we’ve held

And all the flags we’ve hung,

The millions who have nothing for our pay—

Except the dream that’s almost dead today.

O, let America be America again—

The land that never has been yet—

And yet must be—the land where every man is free.

The land that’s mine—the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME—

Who made America,

Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,

Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,

Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose—

The steel of freedom does not stain.

From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives,

We must take back our land again,

America!

O, yes,

I say it plain,

America never was America to me,

And yet I swear this oath—

America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,

The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,

We, the people, must redeem

The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.

The mountains and the endless plain—

All, all the stretch of these great green states—

“It is quite something to spend your entire life feeling like you are somehow out of place, and then to meet someone who understands you before you even say a word. Someone whose singular qualities match your own. Whose kindness makes you feel warm. Who can read your mind from across a whole room.” “I cannot help but feel a little out of place at a society function.” […] “I cannot help but feel that their pursuit has very little to do with me. So perhaps the reason that I stay in shallow water is that I, too, feel like an imposter.” “I know you, Sophie.” “I spent so much of my life feeling alone in a crowded room. I fell for you at the masquerade because you saw me. Just me.”

“Are you certain we have not met before?” “You are not that kite in my study. You’re the person I’ve been searching for all my life.” “Do you need something?” “No. I found it.” “It cannot wait?” “I have waited long enough already.”

“I was admiring the stars. Or attempting to. There are noticeably fewer here than at My Cottage…I do miss our time in the countryside.”

“Are you in need of assistance?” “It is a slippery thing, and I cannot find my valet.” “May I?…There you are.” “Thank you, Sophie.” “What shall we toast?” “Perhaps to Benedict’s button, as it seems to be getting more attention than any of us this evening.” “Ah, to Benedict’s button!”

“You are burning up…This is hardly a bruise. Why did you not say anything?” “Thank you…Do not leave me. Do not leave me again, my lady. Kiss me.” “I assure you he is on the mend.” “She saved my life.” “Are you injured?” “On the mend, thanks to Sophie.”

“I hope you did not find it too tedious, the pair of you, all cooped up like that.” “…It was anything but tedious. In fact, it was one of the happiest weeks of my life. I have always wanted to see that part of the country.”

“Are kites not for children?” “Perhaps. But how will I know if I’ve fixed this one if I do not fly it?” “I have not flown a kite since I was a little girl. It is good to be reminded of such happy memories.”

“I insist. I fixed it for you. Unless…” “What?” “You are concerned you might have a bit of fun.” “You have to run with it! Go on!” “You are right! This is fun! Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton!” “Benedict!”