It Has Seemed To Me That Most

Hang Yourself, Poet, In Your Own Words. Otherwise, You Are Dead.

The Past Has Been A Mint Of Blood And Sorrow. That Must Not Be True Of Tomorrow.

Gather Up In The Arms Of Your Love—those Who Expect No Love From Above.

There's A Certain Amount Of Traveling In A Dream Deferred.

We Negro Writers, Just By Being Black, Have Been On The Blacklist All Our Lives. Censorship For Us Begins At The Color Line.