Believing Everything She Read In The Daily

Gather Out Of Star-dust, Earth-dust, Cloud-dust, Storm-dust, And Splinters Of Hail, One Handful Of Dream-dust, Not For Sale.

It Is The Duty Of The Younger Negro Artist . . . To Change Through The Force Of His Art That Old Whispering "i Want To Be White," Hidden In The Aspirations Of His People, To "why Should I Want To Be White? I Am A Negro - And Beautiful!"

I Do Not Want No Pretty Woman. First Thing You Know, You Fall In Love With Her-then You Got To Kill Somebody About Her. She'll Make You So Jealous, You'll Bust!

Good Evening, Daddy! Ain't You Heard The Boogie-woogie Rumble Of A Dream Deferred? Trilling The Treble And Twining The Bass Into Midnight Ruffles Of Cat-gut Lace.

There Is No Color Line In Art.