The loss of love is a terrible thing; They lie who say that death is worse.
[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.
We were not made to eternally weep.
Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:/ To make a poet black, and bid him sing!
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.