Frederick Douglas

                 -by Robert Hayden

When it is finally ours, this freedom, this liberty, this beautiful

 and terrible thing, needful to man as air,

 usable as earth; when it belongs at last to all,

 when it is truly instinct, brain matter, 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 beautiful, needful thing.