Countee Cullen, "The Spark" (1927)
STAMP hard, be sure
We leave no spark
That may allure
This placid dark.
At last we learn
That love is cruel;
Fire will not burn
Lacking fuel.
Here, take your heart,
The whole of it;
I want no part,
No smallest bit.
And this is mine?
You took scant care;
My heart could shine;
No glaze was there.
Young lips hold wine
The fair world over;
New heads near mine
Will dent the clover;
We need not pine
Now this is over.
Now love is dead
We might be friends;
’Tis best instead
To say all ends,
And when we meet
Pass quickly by;
Oh, speed your feet,
And so will I.
I know a man
Thought a spark was dead
That flamed and ran
A brighter red,
And burned the roof
Above his head.