African American Poetry (1870-1928): A Digital Anthology

On Going (For Willard Johnson) by Countee Cullen

A grave is all too weak a thing
   To hold my fancy long;
I'll bear a blossom with the spring,
   Or be a blackbird's song,

I think that I shall fade with ease,
   Melt into earth like snow,
Be food for hungry, growing trees,
   Or help the lilies blow.

And if my love should lonely walk,
   Quite of my nearness fain,
I may come back to her, and talk
   In liquid words of rain.

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