Never Love With All Your

Whatever Lives Is Granted Breath But By The Grace And Sufferance Of Death.

Yet Do I Marvel At This Curious Thing:/ To Make A Poet Black, And Bid Him Sing!

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

[w]e Have Always Resented The Natural Inclination Of Most White People To Demand Spirituals The Moment It Is Known That A Negro Is About To Sing. So Often The Request Has Seemed To Savor Of The Feeling That We Could Do This And This Alone.

I Cut My Teeth As The Black Raccoon-- For Implements Of Battle.