I was reared in the conservative atmosphere of a Methodist parsonage.

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.

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

[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.

Never love with all your heart, It only ends in aching.

The truth is... everything counts. Everything. Everything we do and everything we say. Everything helps or hurts; everything adds to or takes away from someone else.