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

By the black, deep river. In the moonlight, black and deep, The Mississippi flowed, And I heard its voice.

The blues of the freshness, The river’s own melody, Swaying and whispering, The song of the Earth.

With the moon hung low, And the night lightly torn, The weary blues drift on, In the river’s deep arms.

• Langston Hughes