What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore-- And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode?

Life is an egg you have to be patient and careful with it or it will break.

I got the Weary Blues And I can't be satisfied.

It is the duty of the younger Negro artist . . . to change through the force of his art that old whispering "I want to be white," hidden in the aspirations of his people, to "Why should I want to be white? I am a Negro - and beautiful!"

There is no color line in art.

I am a Negro: Black as the night is black, Black like the depths of my Africa.

What happens to a dream deferred?