Never Love With All Your Heart, It

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.

Africa? A Book One Thumbs Listlessly, Till Slumber Comes.

Not For Myself I Make This Prayer, But For This Race Of Mine That Stretches Forth From Shadowed Places Dark Hands For Bread And Wine.

The Truth Is... Everything Counts. Everything. Everything We Do And Everything We Say. Everything Helps Or Hurts; Everything Adds To Or Takes Away From Someone Else.

If I Am Going To Be A Poet At All, I Am Going To Be Poet And Not Negro Poet.