Africa? A Book One Thumbs Listlessly, Till

Yet Do I Marvel At This Curious Thing:/ To Make A Poet Black, And Bid Him Sing!

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

Father, Son, And Holy Ghost, So I Make An Idle Boast; Jesus Of The Twice-turned Cheek Lamb Of God, Although I Speak With My Mouth Thus, In My Heart Do I Play A Double Part.

[w]e Have Always Resented The Natural Inclination Of Most White People To Demand Spirituals The Moment It Is Known That A Negro Is About To Sing. So Often The Request Has Seemed To Savor Of The Feeling That We Could Do This And This Alone.

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