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.

For we must be one thing or the other, an asset or a liability, the sinew in your wing to help you soar, or the chain to bind you to earth.

[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.

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

We shall not always plant while others reap

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.