Not For Myself I Make

The Night Whose Sable Breast Relieves The Stark, White Stars, Is No Less Lovely Being Dark

Death Cut The Strings That Gave Me Life, And Handed Me To Sorrow, The Only Kind Of Middle Wife My Folks Could Beg Or Borrow.

[w]e Have Always Resented The Natural Inclination Of Most White People To Demand Spirituals The Moment It Is Known That A Negro Is About To Sing. So Often The Request Has Seemed To Savor Of The Feeling That We Could Do This And This Alone.

Whatever Lives Is Granted Breath But By The Grace And Sufferance Of Death.

My Poetry Has Become The Way Of My Giving Out What Music Is Within Me.