Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:/ To make a poet black, and bid him sing!
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.
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.
The loss of love is a terrible thing; They lie who say that death is worse.
I was reared in the conservative atmosphere of a Methodist parsonage.
[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.