The Sundays Of Satin-Legs Smith (Gwendolyn Elizabeth Brooks Poems)
Inamoratas, with an approbation,Bestowed his title. Blessed his inclination.He wakes, unwinds, elaborately: a catTawny, reluctant, royal. He is fatAnd fine ...
Inamoratas, with an approbation,Bestowed his title. Blessed his inclination.He wakes, unwinds, elaborately: a catTawny, reluctant, royal. He is fatAnd fine ...
From the first it had been like aBallad. It had the beat inevitable. It had the blood.A wildness cut up, ...
you did not know you were AfrikaWhen you set out for Afrikayou did not know you were going.Becauseyou did not ...
My Father, it is surely a blue place,And Straight. Right. Regular. Where I shall findNo need for scholarly nonchalance or ...
There is a little lightning in his eyes.Iron at the mouth.His brows ride neither too far up nor down.He is ...
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