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

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

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.

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

I have a rendezvous with life.

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

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