Claude McKay

(15 September 1889 – 22 May 1948 / Clarendon)

Claude McKay Poems

1. Two-An'-Six 4/3/2010
2. Joy In The Woods 3/21/2012
3. Winter In The Country 1/3/2003
4. Wild May 1/3/2003
5. Homing Swallows 1/3/2003
6. Polarity 1/3/2003
7. Russian Cathedral 1/3/2003
8. To O.E.A. 1/3/2003
9. On A Primitive Canoe 1/3/2003
10. Morning Joy 1/3/2003
11. Tormented 1/3/2003
12. The Wild Goat 1/3/2003
13. To Winter 1/3/2003
14. The Plateau 1/3/2003
15. One Year After 1/3/2003
16. Poetry 1/3/2003
17. When Dawn Comes To The City 1/3/2003
18. La Paloma In London 1/3/2003
19. Subway Wind 1/3/2003
20. To One Coming North 1/3/2003
21. Jasmines 1/3/2003
22. O Word I Love To Sing 1/3/2003
23. Spring In New Hampshire 1/3/2003
24. On The Road 1/3/2003
25. Memorial 1/3/2003
26. On Broadway 1/3/2003
27. Summer Morn In New Hampshire 1/3/2003
28. The Night-Fire 1/3/2003
29. North And South 1/3/2003
30. Through Agony 1/3/2003
31. The Tired Worker 1/3/2003
32. The Barrier 1/3/2003
33. The Easter Flower 1/3/2003
34. To A Poet 1/3/2003
35. Song Of The Moon 1/3/2003
36. Futility 1/3/2003
37. Thirst 1/3/2003
38. The White City 1/3/2003
39. Home Thoughts 1/3/2003
40. Rest In Peace 1/3/2003
Best Poem of Claude McKay

If We Must Die

If we must die, let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursèd lot.
If we must die, O let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!
Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow!
What though before us lies the open grave?
Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly ...

Read the full of If We Must Die

Flame-Heart

So much have I forgotten in ten years,
So much in ten brief years! I have forgot
What time the purple apples come to juice,
And what month brings the shy forget-me-not.
I have forgot the special, startling season
Of the pimento's flowering and fruiting;
What time of year the ground doves brown the fields
And fill the noonday with their curious fluting.
I have forgotten much, but still remember

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