Quote

Good evening, daddy! Ain't you heard The boogie-woogie rumble Of a dream deferred? Trilling the treble And twining the bass Into midnight ruffles Of cat-gut lace.

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
Heard
Rumble
Literature
Lace
Dream
Bass
Woogie
Good
Daddy
Twining
Midnight
Treble
Guts
Ruffles
Cat
Deferred
Evening
Boogie

More quotes by Langston Hughes

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Negroes - Sweet and docile, Meek, humble, and kind: Beware the day - They change their mind.
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Good morning, Revolution: You're the very best friend I ever had. We gonna pal around together from now on
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For my best poems were all written when I felt the worst. When I was happy, I didn't write anything.
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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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We Negro writers, just by being black, have been on the blacklist all our lives. Censorship for us begins at the color line.
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I am a Negro: Black as the night is black, Black like the depths of my Africa.
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Americans of good-will, the nice decent church people, the well-meaning liberals, the good hearted souls who themselves wouldn't lynch anyone, must begin to realize that they have to be more than passively good-hearted, more than church goingly Christian, and much more than word-of-mouth in the liberalism.
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I will not take but for an answer.
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When I were a young man, I used to play baseball and steal bases just like Jackie Robinson. If the empire would rule me out, I would get mad and hit the empire.
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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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Like a welcome summer rain, humor may suddenly cleanse and cool the earth, the air and you.
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We younger Negro artists who create now intend to express our individual dark-skinned selves without fear or shame. If white people are pleased we are glad. If they aren?t it doesn?t matter.
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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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Though you may hear me holler, And you may see me cry-- I'll be dogged, sweet baby, If you gonna see me die.
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This is the mountain standing in the way of any true Negro art in America - this urge within the race toward whiteness, the desire to pour racial individuality into the mold of American standardization, and to be as little Negro and as much American as possible.
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It is the duty of the younger Negro artist . . . to change through the force of his art that old whispering I want to be white, hidden in the aspirations of his people, to Why should I want to be white? I am a Negro - and beautiful!
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My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
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I've known rivers: I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins. My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
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When poems stop talking about the moon and begin to mention poverty, trade unions, color, color lines and colonies, somebody tells the police.
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Harriet Tubman lived to see the harvest.
Langston Hughes