Only The Rich Are Lonesome.

The Age Is Materialistic. Verse Isn't. I Must Be With The Age, So I Am Writing Prose.

I Hope There Is Something Worthy In My Writings And Not Merely The Novelty Of A Black Face Associated With The Power To Rhyme That Has Attracted Attention.

Poor Conceited Humanity! Interpreters Of God Indeed.

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Ah Me, When His Wing Is Bruised And His Bosom Sore,- When He Beats His Bars And Would Be Free; It Is Not A Carol Of Joy Or Glee, But A Prayer That He Sends From His Heart's Deep Core, But A Plea, That Upward To Heaven He Flings- I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings!

We Wear The Mask That Grins And Lies, It Hides Our Cheeks And Shades Our Eyes,- - This Debt We Pay To Human Guile; With Torn And Bleeding Hearts We Smile And Mouth With Myriad Subtleties. Why Should The World Be Otherwise, In Counting All Our Tears And Sighs? Nay, Let Them Only See Thus, While We Wear The Mask. We Smile, But, O Great Christ, Our Cries To Thee From Tortured Souls Arise. We Sing, But Oh The Clay Is Vile Beneath Our Feet, And Long The Mile; But Let The World Dream Otherwise, We Wear The Mask!