[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.

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.

All day long and all night through, One thing only must I do: Quench my pride and cool my blood, Lest I perish in the flood.

I was reared in the conservative atmosphere of a Methodist parsonage.

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.

We were not made to eternally weep.

I have a rendezvous with life.