I Have A Rendezvous With Life.

What Is Last Year's Snow To Me, Last Year's Anything? The Tree Budding Yearly Must Forget How Its Past Arose Or Set

Not For Myself I Make This Prayer, But For This Race Of Mine That Stretches Forth From Shadowed Places Dark Hands For Bread And Wine.

If I Am Going To Be A Poet At All, I Am Going To Be Poet And Not Negro Poet.

There Is No Secret To Success Except Hard Work And Getting Something Indefinable Which We Call 'the Breaks.

Ever At Thy Glowing Altar Must My Heart Grow Sick And Falter, Wishing He I Served Were Black.