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.

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.

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

[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.

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

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