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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!"

I Am A Negro: Black As The Night Is Black, Black Like The Depths Of My Africa.

Let The Rain Kiss You. Let The Rain Beat Upon Your Head With Silver Liquid Drops. Let The Rain Sing You A Lullaby. The Rain Makes Still Pools On The Sidewalk. The Rain Makes Running Pools In The Gutter. The Rain Plays A Little Sellp-song On Our Roof At Night- And I Love The Rain.

The First Of The Month Falls Every Month, Too, North Or South. And Them White Folks Who Sends Bills Never Forgets To Send Them-the Phone Bill, The Furniture Bill, The Water Bill, The Gas Bill, Insurance, House Rent.

What Happens To A Dream Deferred? Does It Dry Up Like A Raisin In The Sun? ... Or Does It Explode?