#Americans #Blacks
What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run?
I catch the pattern Of your silence Before you speak I do not need To hear a word.
Where is the Jim Crow section On this merry—go—round, Mister, cause I want to ride? Down South where I come from White and colored
God in His infinite wisdom Did not make me very wise— So when my actions are stupid They hardly take God by surprise
Now dreams Are not available To the dreamers, Nor songs To the singers.
Fine living . . . a la carte? Come to the Waldorf—Astoria! LISTEN HUNGRY ONES! Look! See what Vanity Fair says… new Waldorf—Astoria:
Oh, silver tree! Oh, shining rivers of the soul! In a Harlem cabaret Six long—headed jazzers play. A dancing girl whose eyes are bold
I went down to the river, I set down on the bank. I tried to think but couldn’t, So I jumped in and sank. I came up once and hollered!
I know I am The Negro Problem Being wined and dined, Answering the usual questions That come to white mind
It was a long time ago. I have almost forgotten my dream. But it was there then, In front of me, Bright like a sun—
I will take you heart. I will take your soul out of your… As though I were God. I will not be satisfied With the touch of your hand
Harlem Sent him home in a long box— Too dead To know why:
Here I sit With my shoes mismated. Lawdy—mercy! I’s frustrated!
Democracy will not come Today, this year Nor ever Through compromise and fear. I have as much right
He glides so swiftly Back into the grass— Gives me the courtesy of road To let me pass, That I am half ashamed