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I loved my friend He went away from me There's nothing more to say The poem ends, Soft as it began- I loved my friend.

Langston Hughes

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Langston Hughes
Age: 66 †
Born: 1901
Born: February 1
Died: 1967
Died: May 22
Biographer
Essayist
Journalist
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Writer
Joplin
Missouri
James Langston Hughes
James Mercer Langston Hughes
Away
Ends
Nothing
Soft
Poem
Began
Friend
Loved
Went

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Frosting Freedom Is just frosting On somebody else's Cake-- And so must be Till we Learn how to Bake.
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So since I'm still here livin', I guess I will live on. I could've died for love-- But for livin' I was born.
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What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? ... Or does it explode?
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Believing everything she read In the daily news, (No in-between to choose) She thought that only One side won, Not that BOTH Might lose.
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Democracy will not come Today, this year Nor ever Through compromise and fear.
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Well, when Christ comes back this time, I hope He comes back mad His own self. I hope He drives the Jim Crowers out of their high places, every living last one of them from Washington to Texas.
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Life is an egg you have to be patient and careful with it or it will break.
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To some people Love is given, To others Only Heaven.
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What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore-- And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode?
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There is no color line in art.
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Yet the ivory gods, And the ebony gods, And the gods of diamond-jade, Are only silly puppet gods That people themselves Have made.-
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I did not believe political directives could be successfully applied to creative writing . . . not to poetry or fiction, which to be valid had to express as truthfully as possible the individual emotions and reactions of the writer.
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Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on.
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Misery is when you heard on the radio that the neighborhood you live in is a slum but you always thought it was home.
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Life for me ain't been no crystal stair
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Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.
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Politics in any country in the world is dangerous. For the poet, politics in any country had better be disguised as poetry. Politics can be the graveyard of the poet. And only poetry can be his resurrection.
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Reach Up Your Hand... and take a star.
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I have discovered in life that there are ways of getting almost anywhere you want to go, if you really want to go.
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Hard as I try, daddy-o, I really do not like concert singers. They are always singing in some foreign language.
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