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

Whatever lives is granted breath But by the grace and sufferance of Death.

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 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.

I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind

[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.

If I am going to be a poet at all, I am going to be POET and not NEGRO POET.