She, for sure, was  warrior,

When sky was black as gold,

Dragged across the sunless sea

By men without a soul.

 

Her stories and narrations,

Her lives, as yet untold,

From slave ships and from factories

Were heard amidst the hold.

 

She heard the tramp of wizened men,

Who shivered in the cold:

Men who never saw the sun;

Nor kindnesses behold.

 

These gobeen men and counters,

These misers of the heart,

Their fractured souls’ inheritance

Is to live their lives apart

 

From this Abyssinian maid:

Who, they swore, was in her grave,

She who rises like a sunny day

And blows them all away..

 

Such long and false forgetting,

Of moones and seas and sunne,

Was lifted by her inner-sight

Of children having fun.

 

Songs of sparkling brightness

Of damsels rare and bold

Are sung on Mount Amara:

As Coleridge once foretold