He died at eventide, when the sun lay like a brooding sorrow above the western hills, veiling its face; when the winds spoke not, and the trees, the great green trees he loved, stood motionless.
Du Bois captures the profound sorrow of losing a child, evoking a deep sense of grief and stillness.
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Such an assumption is the arrogance of peoples irreverent toward Time and ignorant of the deeds of men.
Let the ears of a guilty people tingle with truth, and seventy millions sigh for the righteousness which exalteth nations, in this drear day when human brotherhood is mockery and a snare.
Hear my cry, O God the Reader; vouchsafe that this my book fall not still-born into the world wilderness.