Death Cut The Strings That

What Is Africa To Me: Copper Sun Or Scarlet Sea, Jungle Star Or Jungle Track, Strong Bronzed Men, Or Regal Black Women From Whose Loins I Sprang When The Birds Of Eden Sang?

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.

Lord, Forgive Me If My Need Sometimes Shapes A Human Creed.

The Loss Of Love Is A Terrible Thing; They Lie Who Say That Death Is Worse.

Yet Do I Marvel At This Curious Thing:/ To Make A Poet Black, And Bid Him Sing!