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Слушать(AI)Fruit Of The Flower
My father is a quiet
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
Have little depth to fear.
And yet my father's eyes can
How full his life has been;
There haunts them yet the languid
Of some still sacred sin.
And though my mother chants of God,
And of the mystic river,
I've seen a bit of checkered
Set all her flesh aquiver.
Why should he deem it pure mischanceA son of his is
To do a naked tribal
Each time he hears the rain?
Why should she think it devil's
That all my songs should
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
That flushes this wild fruit?
Countee Cullen
Countee Cullen (born Countee LeRoy Porter; May 30, 1903 – January 9, 1946) was an American poet, novelist, children's writer, and playwright, pa
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