Claude McKay

And, hungry for the old, familiar ways, I turned aside and bowed my head and wept.

Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack, Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!

Oh some I know! I have embalmed the days, Even the sacred moments when we played, All innocent of passion, uncorrupt, At noon and evening in the flame-heart’s shade.

I have forgotten much, but still remember The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.

Deep in the secret chambers of my heart I muse my life-long hate, and without flinch I bear it nobly as I live my part.

The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls, Devoured her with their eager, passionate gaze; But looking at her falsely-smiling face, I knew her self was not in that strange place.

Although she feeds me bread of bitterness, And sinks into my throat her tiger’s tooth, Stealing my breath of life, I will confess I love this cultured hell that tests my youth!

If we must die, O let us nobly die, So that our precious blood may not be shed In vain; then even the monsters we defy Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!

Oh, I must keep my heart inviolate Against the potent poison of your hate.

The pavement slabs burn loose beneath my feet, A chafing savage, down the decent street; And passion rends my vitals as I pass, Where boldly shines your shuttered door of glass.

The shivering birds beneath the eaves Have sheltered for the night.