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

White Houses

Your door is shut against my tightened face,
And I am sharp as steel with discontent;
But I possess the courage and the grace
To bear my anger proudly and unbent.
The pavement slabs burn loose beneath my feet,
A chafing savage, down the decent street;
And passion rends my vitals as I pass,
Where boldly shines your shuttered door of glass.
Oh, I must search for wisdom every hour,

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