Suicide Chant by Countee Cullen
The Sower sowed;
I am the deed
His hand bestowed
Upon the world.
Censure me not
If a rank weed flood
The garden plot,
Instead of a bud
To be unfurled.
Bridle your blame
If the deed prove less
Than the bruited fame
With which it came
From nothingness.
The seed of a weed
Cannot be flowered,
Nor a hero's deed
Spring from a coward.
Pull up the weed;
Bring plow and mower;
Then fetch new seed
For the hand of the Sower.