#AmericanWriters
Night funeral In Harlem: Where did they get Them two fine cars? Insurance man, he did not pay—
Let’s go see Old Abe Sitting in the marble and the moon… Sitting lonely in the marble and t… Quiet for ten thousand centuries,… Quiet for a million, million years…
Well, son, I’ll tell you: Life for me ain’t been no crystal… It’s had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up,
Democracy will not come Today, this year Nor ever Through compromise and fear. I have as much right
I catch the pattern Of your silence Before you speak I do not need To hear a word.
It was a long time ago. I have almost forgotten my dream. But it was there then, In front of me, Bright like a sun—
To fling my arms wide In some place of the sun, To whirl and to dance Till the white day is done. Then rest at cool evening
We passed their graves: The dead men there, Winners or losers, Did not care. In the dark
I woke up this mornin’ ’Bout half-past three. All the womens in town Was gathered round me. Sweet gals was a-moanin’,
In the Quarter of the Negroes Where the doors are doors of paper Dust of dingy atoms Blows a scratchy sound. Amorphous jack—o’—Lanterns caper
In an envelope marked: PERSONAL God addressed me a letter. In an envelope marked: PERSONAL
When you turn the corner And you run into yourself Then you know that you have turned All the corners that are left
Let America be America again. Let it be the dream it used to be. Let it be the pioneer on the plain Seeking a home where he himself is… (America never was America to me.…
I will take you heart. I will take your soul out of your… As though I were God. I will not be satisfied With the touch of your hand
Fine living . . . a la carte? Come to the Waldorf—Astoria! LISTEN HUNGRY ONES! Look! See what Vanity Fair says… new Waldorf—Astoria: