Not for myself I make this prayer, But for this race of mine That stretches forth from shadowed places Dark hands for bread and wine.
Give but a grain of the heart's rich seed, Confine some under cover, And when love goes, bid him God-speed. And find another lover.
I was reared in the conservative atmosphere of a Methodist parsonage.
Whatever lives is granted breath But by the grace and sufferance of Death.
Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:/ To make a poet black, and bid him sing!
All day long and all night through, One thing only must I do: Quench my pride and cool my blood, Lest I perish in the flood.