Countee Cullen

“ With poppy for my everlasting flower;
I long not now for that dim cubicle
Of earth to which my lease will not expire,
Where he who comes a tenant there may dwell
Without a thought of famine, flood, or fire. ”

“ 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 fright
Like something speared or javelined,
“Poor little pigs, they see the wind.” ”

“ High as the star of that last poignant cry
Death could not stifle in the wasted frame,
You know at length the bright immortal lie
Time gives to those detractors of your name,
And see, from where you and Diana ride,
Your humble epitaph—how misapplied! ”

“ No sky that ever arched its head
Above a wonder-stricken two
Aghast at love, wore such a hue.
Only the Hand that never erred
Bent on beauty, creation-spurred,
Could mix and mingle such a dye,
Nor leave its like in earth or sky. ”

“ And you were born a jade,
It’s just the way things come to pass,
And men and mice are made.
I tell you love is like the dew
That trembles on the grass;
You’d not believe me, speaking true,
That love is wormwood, lass. ”

“ Now their concern is dead.
But where shall I bury sun and rain,
How mortalise the stars,
How still the half-heard cries of pain
That seared her soul with scars?
In what sea depths shall all the seeds
Of every flower die? ”

“ That grief is harder on than time on stone,
Though three sides crumble, one will stand apart,
Where thought may mourn its past, remembrance groan,
And hands now bare that once were rich with rings
Rebuild upon the ancient site of things. ”

“ 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,
I come to no flower but I pluck,
I raise no cup but I sip,
For a mouth is the best of sweets to suck ”

“ My hands are slack; my blood is cold;
I marvel that my heart still beats.
I have no will to weep or sing,
No least desire to pray or curse;
The loss of love is a terrible thing;
They lie who say that death is worse. ”

“ But four strong seasons wrangle on this lover’s face.
Of all men born he deems himself so much accurst,
His plight so piteous, his proper pain so rare,
The very bread he eats so dry, so fierce his thirst,
What shall we liken such a martyr to? ”

“ To symbols strange to us
May reckon clearer of His love
Than we who own His cross.
The world’s a curious riddle thrown
Water-wise from heaven’s cup;
The souls we think are hurtling down
Perhaps are climbing up. ”

“ Scarce breathing, tense, alert;
Now nothing stirs for ill or good,
For healing or for hurt.
Your hands are cold, and I am cold;
We speak, but drop no pearls;
No careless wind disturbs the gold
Still cradled in your curls. ”

“ Priest am I now for wisdom’s pay,
And half a priest’s task is to slay,
Nor raise one far-remembering cry
Though with the slain the slayer die.
Aloft the sacred knife is curved:
The gods of knowledge must be served. ”

“ If love be staunch, call mountains brittle;
Love is a thing will live
So long, my dear,—oh, just the little
While water stays in a sieve.
Yea, love is deathless as the day
Whose death the stars reveal ”

“ That hides the better selves of men.
And as my day throbs into dusk,
This heart the world has made to bleed,
While all its red stream deathward flows,
Shall comprehend just why the seed
Must agonize to be the rose. ”

“ The spear may mar our side,
And on white wood from a scented bough
We may be crucified;
Yet no assault the old gods make
Upon our agony
Shall swerve our footsteps from the wake
Of Thine toward Calvary. ”

“ I who adore exotic things
Would shape a sound
To be your name, a word that sings
Until the head goes round.
I who am proud with other folk
Would grow complete
In pride on bitter words you spoke,
And kiss your petalled feet. ”

“ With Age, man’s foe, Earth ever is in league.
Time resurrects her even while he crowds
Your bloom to dust, and lengthens out your shrouds
A day’s length or a year’s; she will be young,
When your last cracked and quivering note is sung. ”

“ Not always countenance, abject and mute,
That lesser men should hold their brothers cheap;
Not everlastingly while others sleep
Shall we beguile their limbs with mellow flute,
Not always bend to some more subtle brute ”

“ And part, and bliss repeat again. And men
Will pilgrimage from far and wide to see
This tree for which we two were crucified,
And, happy in themselves, will never know
’Twas break of heart that made the Love Tree grow. ”

“ Inevitable is the way I go,
False-faced amid a pageant permeate
With bliss, yet visioning a higher wave
Than this weak ripple washing to and fro;
The fool still keeps his dreams inviolate
Till their virginity espouse the grave. ”

“ Ourselves with names of lovers who by now
Are dust, but rarer dust for loving high
Than they shall be who let the red flame die. . . .
Crouched sphinx-wise in the grass, you hugged your knees,
And called me “Abelard;” ”

“ Has in some man his human counterpart,
Some lofty soul in dreams and visions wrapped,
But in the stifling flesh securely trapped.
Gaunt eagle whose raw pinions stain the bars
That prison you, so men cry for the stars!
Some delve down like the mole far underground,
(Their nature is to burrow, not to bound) ,
Some, like the snake, with changeless slothful eye,
Stir not, but sleep and smoulder where they lie. ”

“ Troublous Whence and Whither,
Why men strive and sweat, and care for
Bays that droop and wither.
All the stars she knows by name,
End and origin thereof,
Knows if love be kin to shame,
If shame be less than love. ”

“ While for the warm delight of my embrace
Queen Guinevere turns cold to Lancelot.
Thou slender cruelty and slim distress,
Let each to each forgetful and forgot
Abide; for me, a dream-dark loveliness,
Queen Guinevere turns cold to Lancelot. ”

“ A dawnless Night may soothe the smart of grief.
If from the soil our sweat enriches sprout
One meagre blossom for our hands to cull,
Accustomed indigence provokes a shout
Of praise that life becomes so bountiful. ”

“ Colored Blues Singer
Some weep to find the Golden Pear
Feeds maggots at the core,
And some grow cold as ice, and bear
Them prouder than before.
But you go singing like the sea
Whose lover turns to land ”

“ And love me while you can;
And when you will, and can be bettered,
Go to the better man.
“For you’ll grow weary, maybe, sleeping
So long a time with me;
Like this there’ll be no cause for weeping;
The wind is always free. ”

“ Once in as many years a man may rise
So cosmopolitan of thought and speech,
Humanity reflected in his eyes,
His heart a haven every race can reach,
That doubters shall receive a mortal thrust,
And own, “This man proves flesh exalts its dust.” ”

“ Although
Unremembered now.
Trees so soon forget
Little leaves they had
Before,
Knowing spring will let
Them wake, vernal clad
With more;
Trees so soon forget.
Man dreams that he
Is more than a leaf on a tree. ”

“ Now love is dead
We might be friends;
’Tis best instead
To say all ends,
And when we meet
Pass quickly by;
Oh, speed your feet,
And so will I.
I know a man
Thought a spark was dead
That flamed and ran
A brighter red,
And burned the roof
Above his head. ”

“ A wassail cup in which there is no wine;
Thy sweet, high treble hushed that never mine
Auricular delight again shall suit
To wild bird warblings, or liken to a flute
That with wild tremors agitates the spine ”

“ But in the violated seed exults,
The bleakest winter through, a deathless pulse,
Beating, “Spring wipes this sacrilege away.”
No less shall I in some new fashion flare
Again, when death has blown my candles out ”

“ Sonnet to a Scornful Lady
(To Ruth Marie)
LIKE some grim gladiator who has fought
Men loving life as lustily as he,
And with red wounds and blood has dearly bought
A forced reprieve from those who came to see
Him die ”

“ Rages like a flood,
Chews her placid hearsays
As a cow her cud.
Scandal hobnobs with the rich
Over purple wine;
Gossip has the vagabonds
In to chat and dine.
Scandal never visits us;
We are far too poor ”

“ The play is done, the crowds depart; and see
That twisted tortured thing hung from a tree,
Swart victim of a newer Calvary. ”