Category: Harlem Renaissance
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The Negro Speaks of Rivers
“My soul has grown deep like the rivers.” Written when he was just 17, this Langston Hughes classic traces Black history from the Euphrates to the Mississippi.
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“Beehive”
“Silver bees intently buzzing, Silver honey dripping from the swarm of bees Earth is a waxen cell of the world comb,”— from “Beehive” by Jean Toomer
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“The Measure” by Georgia Douglas Johnson (1880 – 1966)
“The Measure” BY GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON Fierce is the conflict—the battle of eyes, Sure and unerring, the wordless replies, Challenges flash from their ambushing caves— Men, by their glances, are masters or slaves. Source: The Heart of a Woman and Other Poems (The Cornhill Company, 1918)
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“Black Woman” by Georgia Douglas Johnson (1880 – 1966)
“Black Woman” Georgia Douglas Johnson, 1880 – 1966 Don’t knock at the door, little child, I cannot let you in, You know not what a world this is Of cruelty and sin. Wait in the still eternity Until I come to you, The world is cruel, cruel, child, I cannot let you in! Don’t knock at my heart,…
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“Foredoom” by Georgia Douglas Johnson (1880 – 1966)
“…Her soul, a bud,—that never bloomed.”
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“Quest” by Georgia Douglas Johnson (1880 – 1966)
Quest BY GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON The phantom happiness I sought O’er every crag and moor; I paused at every postern gate, And knocked at every door; In vain I searched the land and sea, E’en to the inmost core, The curtains of eternal night Descend—my search is o’er.
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“My Little Dreams by Georgia Douglas Johnson (1880 – 1966)
My Little Dreams BY GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON I’m folding up my little dreams Within my heart tonight, And praying I may soon forget The torture of their sight. For time’s deft fingers scroll my brow With fell relentless art— I’m folding up my little dreams Tonight, within my heart.
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“The Wife-Woman” by Anne Spencer (1882 – 1975)
“I cannot love them; and I feel your glad Chiding from the grave, That my all was only worth at all, what Joy to you it gave.”
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“Translation” by Anne Spencer (1882 – 1975)
Translation BY ANNE SPENCER We trekked into a far country, My friend and I. Our deeper content was never spoken, But each knew all the other said. He told me how calm his soul was laid By the lack of anvil and strife. “The wooing kestrel,” I said, “mutes his mating-note To please the harmony of…
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“At the Carnival” by Anne Spencer (1882 – 1975)
“…There, too, were games of chance With chances for none; But oh! Girl-of-the-Tank, at last!”