Countee Cullen

What is Africa to me:
Copper sun or scarlet sea,
Jungle star or jungle track,
Strong bronzed men, or regal

Along the shore the tall thin grass,
That fringes that dark river,
While sinuously soft feet
Beings to bleed and quiver

This lovely flower fell to seed;
Work gently sun and rain;
She held it as her dying
That she would grow again

This is not water running here,
These thick rebellious
That hurtle flesh and bone past
Down alleyways of

Once riding in old Baltimore,
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee;
I saw a
Keep looking straight at me

Born of the sorrowful of
Mirth was a crown upon his head;
Pride kept his twisted lips
In jest, to hide a heart that bled

I have a rendezvous with Life,
In days I hope will come,
Ere youth has sped, and strength of mind,
Ere voices sweet grow dumb

She even thinks that up in heaven    Her class lies late and
While poor black cherubs rise at seven    To do celestial chores

We shall not always plant while others
The golden increment of bursting fruit,
Not always countenance, abject and mute,
That lesser men should hold their brothers cheap;

With two white roses on her breasts,
White candles at head and feet,
Dark Madonna of the grave she rests;
Lord Death has found her sweet

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;

My father is a quiet
With sober, steady ways;
For simile, a folded fan;
His nights are like his days