White man, you are the summer of the world
Tho clouds come, to blot out his face
The southern sun without a trace–
But dust to which the sky was hurled;

Did white clouds make the summer less bright
Your crook’d memory of elemental things
Make dust seem to be having wings–
And dash the divine into a rainbow of light?

Did white sand solitude entrance your eyes
One disk whose flat bright boundary set
A god whose name was not uttered yet
A nodding mystery to make-like wise?

Did white-lightning cease to obey your call
And pull the clouds like a chariot’s reins
Who pull down the royal Master’s fanes–
But cannot clean out a cattle-stall?

White page of man’s ancient memories
Fable-filled and sure incomplete
In old lies do you now hope to meet
Men who never walked or sailed the seas?

And white lies are ever considered first
You say we lied to ourselves for long
And those pages of lies you say are wrong
It was those lies which have made us worst?

The white day of midsummer may pass
In this great world which set upon a rood
Turns toward its end, wherein the good
Of tears and solace are now amassed;

Did white hair make you forget the true
Your law, your land, your bloody cross
Did those who bore it suffer loss
Because a better city they knew?

White man, you try to guess what you are
As tho a but magic word at hand
Could name you and thus heal your land
And with that spelling sure win this war;

But White Sun, O great hand upon the rod
Cast from this people both envy and grief
Hatred of enemy, lust for relief —
White man, become a son of God!