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

We were not made to eternally weep.

[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.

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

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

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.