Hang Yourself, Poet, In Your Own Words.

This Is The Mountain Standing In The Way Of Any True Negro Art In America - This Urge Within The Race Toward Whiteness, The Desire To Pour Racial Individuality Into The Mold Of American Standardization, And To Be As Little Negro And As Much American As Possible.

I've Been Scared And Battered. My Hopes The Wind Done Scattered. Snow Has Friz Me, Sun Has Baked Me, Looks Like Between 'em They Done Tried To Make Me Stop Laughin', Stop Lovin', Stop Livin'-- But I Don't Care! I'm Still Here!

Because My Mouth Is Wide With Laughter And My Throat Is Deep With Song, You Do Not Think I Suffer After I Have Held My Pain So Long? Because My Mouth Is Wide With Laughter You Do Not Hear My Inner Cry? Because My Feet Are Gay With Dancing You Do Not Know I Die?

Peace We Passed Their Graves: The Dead Men There, Winners Or Losers, Did Not Care. In The Dark They Could Not See Who Had Gained The Victory.

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!"