What Is Last Year's Snow To Me,

For We Must Be One Thing Or The Other, An Asset Or A Liability, The Sinew In Your Wing To Help You Soar, Or The Chain To Bind You To Earth.

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

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.

The Night Whose Sable Breast Relieves The Stark, White Stars, Is No Less Lovely Being Dark

Lord, Forgive Me If My Need Sometimes Shapes A Human Creed.