When poems stop talking about the moon and begin to mention poverty, trade unions, color, color lines and colonies, somebody tells the police.

Reach Up Your Hand... and take a star.

America never was America to me And yet I swear this oath - America will be!

It were depression, too. They cut my wages down once at the foundry. They cut my wages down again. Then they cut my wages out, also the job.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

Your explanation depresses me," I said. "Your nonsense depresses me," said Simple.

Peace We passed their graves: The dead men there, Winners or losers, Did not care. In the dark They could not see Who had gained The victory.