The Souls of Black Folk by W.E.B. Du Bois — Read

But the Brute said in his breast, "Till the mills I grind have ceased, / The riches shall be dust of dust, dry ashes be the feast! / "On the strong and cunning few / Cynic favors I will strew; / I will stuff their maw with overplus until their spirit dies; / From the patient and the low / I will take the joys they know; / They shall hunger after vanities and still an-hungered go. / Madness shall be on the people, ghastly jealousies arise; / Brother's blood shall cry on brother up the dead and empty skies. " / William Vaughn Moody

Have you ever seen a cotton-field white with harvest -- its golden fleece hovering above the black earth like a silvery cloud edged with dark green, its bold white signals waving like the foam of billows from Carolina to Texas across that Black and human Sea? I have sometimes half suspected that here the winged ram Chrysomallus left that Fleece after which Jason and his Argonauts went vaguely wandering into the shadowy East three thousand years ago; and certainly one might frame a pretty and not farfetched analogy of witchery and dragons' teeth, and blood and armed men, between the ancient and the modern quest of the Golden Fleece in the Black Sea.