Countee Cullen

Locked arm in arm they cross the way, The black boy and the white, The golden splendor of the day, The sable pride of night.

From lowered blinds the dark folk stare, And here the fair folk talk, Indignant that these two should dare In unison to walk.

Oblivious to look and word They pass, and see no wonder That lightning brilliant as a sword Should blaze the path of thunder.

This is not water running here, These thick rebellious streams That hurtle flesh and bone past fear Down alleyways of dreams.

This is a wine that must flow on Not caring how nor where, So it has ways to flow upon Where song is in the air.

So it can woo an artful flute With loose, elastic lips, Its measurement of joy compute With blithe, ecstatic hips.

Now I am young and credulous, My heart is quick to bleed At courage in the tremulous Slow sprouting of a seed.

Now I am young and sensitive, Man’s lack can stab me through; I own no stitch I would not give To him that asked me to.

Now I am young and a fool for love, My blood goes mad to see A brown girl pass me like a dove That flies melodiously.

Let me be lavish of my tears, And dream that false is true; Though wisdom cometh with the years, The barren days come, too.

My father is a quiet man With sober, steady ways; For simile, a folded fan; His nights are like his days.

My mother’s life is puritan, No hint of cavalier, A pool so calm you’re sure it can Have little depth to fear.

And yet my father’s eyes can boast How full his life has been; There haunts them yet the languid ghost Of some still sacred sin.

And though my mother chants of God, And of the mystic river, I’ve seen a bit of checkered sod Set all her flesh aquiver.

Why should he deem it pure mischance A son of his is fain To do a naked tribal dance Each time he hears the rain?

Why should she think it devil’s art That all my songs should be Of love and lovers, broken heart, And wild sweet agony?

Who plants a seed begets a bud, Extract of that same root; Why marvel at the hectic blood That flushes this wild fruit?

I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth, And laid them away in a box of gold; Where long will cling the lips of the moth, I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth; I hide no hate; I am not even wroth Who found earth’s breath so keen and cold; I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth, And laid them away in a box of gold.

This lovely flower fell to seed; Work gently, sun and rain; She held it as her dying creed That she would grow again.

I whose magic could explore Ways others might not guess or see, Now am barred behind a door That has no “Open Sesame.”

I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind, And did He stoop to quibble could tell why The little buried mole continues blind, Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die, Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus To struggle up a never-ending stair. Inscrutable His ways are, and immune To catechism by a mind too strewn With petty cares to slightly understand What awful brain compels His awful hand. Yet do I marvel at this curious thing: To make a poet black, and bid him sing!