I do so want to sing the songs

Of Homowo and

Adae;

Of Aboakyer,

Odwira and

Bakatue.

But I want to sing

In verse, not prose.

The kind of verse

Which opens wide the graves

And sets the wild ghosts free.

Free,

Free to fly

Heaven-bound

With my songs,

Which must be heard

In some

Far off corner

In heaven.

But, alas!

I must not write.

For I fear these critics—

Some critics!—

Have left at home

Their planes.

And, oh,

They have no wings!