I Know What The Caged

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!

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.

We Wear The Mask That Grins And Lies.

The Age Is Materialistic. Verse Isn't. I Must Be With The Age, So I Am Writing Prose.

It's All A Farce, - These Tales They Tell About The Breezes Sighing, And Moans Astir O'er Field And Dell, Because The Year Is Dying.