The Book of American Negro Poetry/Welt


Would I might mend the fabric of my youth
That daily flaunts its tatters to my eyes,
Would I might compromise awhile with truth
Until our moon now waxing, wanes and dies.

For I would go a further while with you,
And drain this cup so tantalant and fair
Which meets my parchèd lips like cooling dew,
Ere time has brushed cold fingers thru my hair!