I Have A Rendezvous With Life.

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

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

Lord, I Fashion Dark Gods, Too, Daring Even To Give You Dark Despairing Features

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

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.