Washington Is The City Where The Big

A Minute To Smile And An Hour To Weep In, A Pint Of Joy To A Peck Of Trouble, And Never A Laugh But The Moans Come Double; And That Is Life!

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Ah Me, When His Wing Is Bruised And His Bosom Sore,- When He Beats His Bars And Would Be Free; It Is Not A Carol Of Joy Or Glee, But A Prayer That He Sends From His Heart's Deep Core, But A Plea, That Upward To Heaven He Flings- I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings!

Oh, How With More Than Dreams The Soul Is Torn, Ere Sleep Comes Down To Soothe The Weary Eyes.

People Are Taking It For Granted That [the Negro] Ought Not To Work With His Head. And It Is So Easy For These People Among Whom We Are Living To Believe This; It Flatters And Satisfies Their Self-complacency.

This, This Indeed Is To Be Accursed, For If We Mortals Love, Or If We Sing, We Count Our Joys Not By What We Have, But By What Kept Us From That Perfect Thing.