Sonnet # 8

I know I love my race, and why no so?
But for outside beauty I wish the rose.
If people vex me, " Your heart needs to grow!"
I say, "God gave the rose secure-fixed pose."
But of my race, there`s something I`d ne`er change
For flowers fair, or pearls, or pure gold:
Of his surviving nature his huge range;
How much his blood keeps us we all in hold.
So here I am deep in my human mirth,
And though I`ve eyes and taste for pretty things,
My heart and mind revere and praise my birth,
And then my soul does look divine and sings.
Yes, beauty, we love thee; fault of the eye.
I`m proud I am the night; my chin`up high.