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.
There is no secret to success except hard work and getting something indefinable which we call ’the breaks.
I was reared in the conservative atmosphere of a Methodist parsonage.
My poetry has become the way of my giving out what music is within me.
We shall not always plant while others reap.
We were not made to eternally weep.
Never love with all your heart, It only ends in aching.
Whatever lives is granted breath But by the grace and sufferance of Death.
All day long and all night through, One thing only must I do: Quench my pride and cool my blood, Lest I perish in the flood.
What is Africa to me: Copper sun or scarlet sea, Jungle star or jungle track, Strong bronzed men, or regal black Women from whose loins I sprang When the birds of Eden sang?
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.
I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind.
The loss of love is a terrible thing; They lie who say that death is worse.
Lord, forgive me if my need Sometimes shapes a human creed.
Give but a grain of the heart’s rich seed, Confine some under cover, And when love goes, bid him God-speed. And find another lover.
Ever at Thy glowing altar Must my heart grow sick and falter, Wishing He I served were black.
I have a rendezvous with life.
In order for a writer to succeed, I suggest three things – read and write – and wait.