Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:/ To make a poet black, and bid him sing!
If I am going to be a poet at all, I am going to be POET and not NEGRO POET.
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.
I was reared in the conservative atmosphere of a Methodist parsonage.
The loss of love is a terrible thing; They lie who say that death is worse.
Never love with all your heart, It only ends in aching.