Countee Cullen

Countee Cullen

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Countee Cullen (born Countee LeRoy Porter; May 30, 1903 – January 9, 1946) was an American poet, novelist, children's writer, and playwright, particularly well known during the Harlem Renaissance.
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The Wakeupworld

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This is the song of the Wakeupworld,
The beautiful beast with long tail curled:"Wake up,
O World;
O World, awake
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From The Dark Tower

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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;
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Lines To My Father

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The many sow, but only the chosen reap;
Happy the wretched host if Day be brief,
That with the cool oblivion of sleep A dawnless Night may soothe the smart of grief
If from the soil our sweat enriches sprout One meagre blossom for o...
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Incident

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

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Never love with all your heart,
It only ends in aching;
And bit by bit to the smallest
That organ will be breaking
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Youth Sings A Song Of Rosebuds

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Since men grow diffident at last,
And care no whit at all,
If spring be come, or the fall be past,
Or how the cool rains fall,
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Karenge Ya Marenge

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Wherein are words sublime or noble
What Invests one speech with haloed eminence,
Makes it the sesame for all doors shut,
Yet in its like sees but impertinence
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To John Keats Poet At Spring Time

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I cannot hold my peace,
John Keats;
There never was a spring like this;
It is an echo, that repeats My last year's song and next year's bliss
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For A Poet

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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;
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Tableau

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Locked arm in arm they cross the
The black boy and the white,
The golden splendor of the
The sable pride of night
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Saturdays Child

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Some are teethed on a silver spoon,
With the stars strung for a rattle;
I cut my teeth as the black racoon—For implements of battle
Some are swaddled in silk and down,
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To Certain Critics

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Then call me traitor if you must,
Shout reason and default
Say I betray a sacred trust Aching beyond this vault
I'll bear your censure as your praise,
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The Unknown Color

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I've often heard my mother say,
When great winds blew across the day,
And, cuddled close and out of sight,
The young pigs squealed with sudden
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To A Brown Boy

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That brown girl's swagger gives a
To beauty like a Queen,
Lad, never damn your body's
When loveliness is seen
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The Loss Of Love

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All through an empty place I go,
And find her not in any room;
The candles and the lamps I
Go down before a wind of gloom
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Harlem Wine

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