I know what the caged bird feels, alas!

It's all a farce, - these tales they tell About the breezes sighing, And moans astir o'er field and dell, Because the year is dying.

..we wear the mask that grins and lies, it hides our cheeks and shades our eyes- this debt we pay to human guile; with torn and bleeding hearts we smile.

Washington is the city where the big men of little towns come to be disillusioned

People are taking it for granted that [the Negro] ought not to work with his head. And it is so easy for these people among whom we are living to believe this; it flatters and satisfies their self-complacency.

Only the rich are lonesome.

The age is materialistic. Verse isn't. I must be with the age, so I am writing prose.