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

Spring In New Hampshire

Too green the springing April grass,
Too blue the silver-speckled sky,
For me to linger here, alas,
While happy winds go laughing by,
Wasting the golden hours indoors,
Washing windows and scrubbing floors.

Too wonderful the April night,
Too faintly sweet the first May flowers,

[Hata Bildir]