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Countee Cullen
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.
writing letters to her
I slept on silk
and would not go out
my mind turned to amber
like the evening
I put on my best black
trimmed with black
silk on velvet gown
but O if I could have found my heart
that blessed crumb
I wear my sorrow
trimmed with gold silk
like a worn-out wife
forced to sneak like a beggar into bed
but it can cost a great deal
just to die
This morning I will go
to Constantinople
where the woman I love
sells child’s coats.
Last night
I sent for my chest
and put on my black silk for joy.
light is an old acquaintance
come with a pick-axe into the cellar
a mad night-gown of silk
I wear it as an experiment
in walking upright
a private game
let it fall where it will
more real than any answer
that nothing on the stage
The first sphere of wire
through heat of the sun
drank a star.
In his silk cloak, the chairman made
the rest of the day a bed.
Here in a cage the dollars come down.
To the click of a tube the dollars tumble.
And out of a mouth the dollars run,
I finger the dollars,
Paper and silver,
Thousands a day.
Some days it's fun to finger the dollars.
Some days . . .
the dollars keep on in a sob or a whisper :
A flame of rose in the hair,
A flame of silk at the throat.
Over the shop where silk is sold
Still the dragon kites are flying.
There was a man
Who made his living
By painting roses
Upon silk.
He sat in an upper chamber
And painted,
And the noises of the street
Meant nothing to him.
When he heard bugles, and fifes, and drums,
He thought of red, and yellow, and white roses
Bursting in the sunshine,
And smiled as he worked.
He thought only of roses,
And silk.
When he could get no more silk
He stopped painting