"Oh, Black known and unknown poets, how often have your auctioned pains sustained us? Who will compute the lonely nights made less lonely by your songs, or by the empty pots made less tragic by your tales?
If we were a people much given to revealing secrets, we might raise monuments and sacrifice to the memories of our poets, but slavery cured us of that weakness. It may be enough, however, to have it said that we survive in exact relationship to the dedication of our poets (include preachers, musicians and blues singers)."
"She would have been more surprised than I had she taken me in her arms and wept at losing me. Her world was bordered on all sides with work, duty,
religion, and 'her place.' I don't think she ever knew that a deep-brooding love hung over everything she touched. In later years, I asked her if she loved me
and she brushed me off with: 'God is love. Just worry about whether you're being a good girl, then He will love you.'"
