There Is No Secret To

I Cut My Teeth As The Black Raccoon-- For Implements Of Battle.

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

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?

I Doubt Not God Is Good, Well-meaning, Kind

What Is Last Year's Snow To Me, Last Year's Anything? The Tree Budding Yearly Must Forget How Its Past Arose Or Set