We Shall Not Always Plant

Ever At Thy Glowing Altar Must My Heart Grow Sick And Falter, Wishing He I Served Were Black.

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

Never Love With All Your Heart, It Only Ends In Aching.

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

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