Most musicians remain poor. But the music that they make, even if it does not bring them millions, gives millions of people happiness.

My seeking has been to explain and illuminate the Negro condition in America and obliquely that of all human kind.

I've been scared and battered. My hopes the wind done scattered. Snow has friz me, Sun has baked me, Looks like between 'em they done Tried to make me Stop laughin', stop lovin', stop livin'-- But I don't care! I'm still here!

Though you may hear me holler, And you may see me cry-- I'll be dogged, sweet baby, If you gonna see me die.

I loved my friend He went away from me There's nothing more to say The poem ends, Soft as it began- I loved my friend.

Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.

Gather out of star-dust, Earth-dust, Cloud-dust, Storm-dust, And splinters of hail, One handful of dream-dust, Not for sale.