The Weary Blues

Droning a drowsy syncopated tune, Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon, I heard the Negro sing, ‘The Weary Blues.’

Sweeter than the honey, Sadder than the rain, This tune of the blues, This plaintive refrain.

He sang it all night, Till that old moon hung low, So low that his voice drifted, Down where the river flows.

He sang of the mountains, He sang of the fen, He sang of the struggles, And moments again.

I heard the Negro sing, ‘The Weary Blues.’ In the cool night air, Till dawn came anew.

• Langston Hughes