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The key to all strange things is in thy heart..../ My spirit has come home, that sailed the doubtful seas.

Countee Cullen

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Countee Cullen
Age: 42 †
Born: 1903
Born: May 30
Died: 1946
Died: January 9
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Louisville
Kentucky
Countee LeRoy Porter
Countee Cullen
Home
Sailed
Come
Seas
Heart
Doubtful
Things
Sailing
Keys
Sea
Strange
Spirit

More quotes by Countee Cullen

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The loss of love is a terrible thing They lie who say that death is worse.
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For we must be one thing or the other, an asset or a liability, the sinew in your wing to help you soar, or the chain to bind you to earth.
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I was reared in the conservative atmosphere of a Methodist parsonage.
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Lord, I fashion dark gods, too, Daring even to give You Dark despairing features
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Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:/ To make a poet black, and bid him sing!
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Never love with all your heart, It only ends in aching.
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The truth is... everything counts. Everything. Everything we do and everything we say. Everything helps or hurts everything adds to or takes away from someone else.
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[W]e have always resented the natural inclination of most white people to demand spirituals the moment it is known that a Negro is about to sing. So often the request has seemed to savor of the feeling that we could do this and this alone.
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Not for myself I make this prayer, But for this race of mine That stretches forth from shadowed places Dark hands for bread and wine.
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What is Africa to me: Copper sun or scarlet sea, Jungle star or jungle track, Strong bronzed men, or regal black Women from whose loins I sprang When the birds of Eden sang?
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Quaint, outlandish heathen gods Black men fashion out of rods
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Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, So I make an idle boast Jesus of the twice-turned cheek Lamb of God, although I speak With my mouth thus, in my heart Do I play a double part.
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Africa? A book one thumbs Listlessly, till slumber comes.
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Dame Poverty gave me my name, And Pain godfathered me.
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There is no secret to success except hard work and getting something indefinable which we call 'the breaks.
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Death cut the strings that gave me life, And handed me to Sorrow, The only kind of middle wife My folks could beg or borrow.
Countee Cullen