We were not made to eternally weep.

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.

[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.

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!

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

I have a rendezvous with life.