I Got The Weary Blues And I

Through My Grandmother's Stories Always Life Moved, Moved Heroically Toward An End. Nobody Ever Cried In My Grandmother's Stories. They Worked, Or Schemed, Or Fought. But No Crying. When My Grandmother Died, I Didn't Cry, Either. Something About My Grandmother's Stories (without Her Ever Having Said So) Taught Me The Uselessness Of Crying About Anything."

My Seeking Has Been To Explain And Illuminate The Negro Condition In America And Obliquely That Of All Human Kind.

What Happens To A Dream Deferred? Does It Dry Up Like A Raisin In The Sun? Or Fester Like A Sore-- And Then Run? Does It Stink Like Rotten Meat? Or Crust And Sugar Over-- Like A Syrupy Sweet? Maybe It Just Sags Like A Heavy Load. Or Does It Explode?

Well, Son, I'll Tell You: Life For Me Ain't Been No Crystal Stair. It's Had Tacks In It, And Splinters, And Boards Torn Up, And Places With No Carpet On The Floor -- Bare. But All The Time I'se Been A-climbin' On, And Reachin' Landin's, And Turnin' Corners, And Sometimes Goin' In The Dark Where There Ain't Been No Light. So Boy, Don't You Turn Back. Don't You Set Down On The Steps 'cause You Finds It's Kinder Hard. Don't You Fall Now -- For I'se Still Goin', Honey, I'se Still Climbin', And Life For Me Ain't Been No Crystal Stair.

Out Of The Rack And Ruin Of Our Gangster Death, The Rape And Rot Of Graft, And Stealth, And Lies, We, The People, Must Redeem The Land, The Mines, The Plants, The Rivers. The Mountains And The Endless Plain-- All, All The Stretch Of These Great Green States-- And Make America Again!