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.

The loss of love is a terrible thing; They lie who say that death is worse.

We shall not always plant while others reap

[W]e have always resented the natural inclination of most white people to demand spirituals the moment it is known that a Negro is about to sing. So often the request has seemed to savor of the feeling that we could do this and this alone.

We were not made to eternally weep.

The key to all strange things is in thy heart..../ My spirit has come home, that sailed the doubtful seas.

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.