My Poetry Has Become The Way Of

I Was Reared In The Conservative Atmosphere Of A Methodist Parsonage.

Death Cut The Strings That Gave Me Life, And Handed Me To Sorrow, The Only Kind Of Middle Wife My Folks Could Beg Or Borrow.

The Loss Of Love Is A Terrible Thing; They Lie Who Say That Death Is Worse.

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

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.