Countee Cullen Poems

He never spoke a word to me,
And yet He called my name;
He never gave a sign to me,
And yet I knew and came.
...

I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind
And did He stoop to quibble could tell why
The little buried mole continues blind,
Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die,
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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.
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She even thinks that up in heaven
Her class lies late and snores

While poor black cherubs rise at seven
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The many sow, but only the chosen reap;
Happy the wretched host if Day be brief,
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That bright chimeric beast
Conceived yet never born,
Save in the poet's breast,
The white-flanked unicorn,
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This is not water running here,
These thick rebellious streams
That hurtle flesh and bone past fear
Down alleyways of dreams
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Locked arm in arm they cross the way
The black boy and the white,
The golden splendor of the day
The sable pride of night.
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I have a rendezvous with Life,
In days I hope will come,
Ere youth has sped, and strength of mind,
Ere voices sweet grow dumb.
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I cannot hold my peace, John Keats;
There never was a spring like this;
It is an echo, that repeats
...