Beauty for some provides escape, who gain a happiness in eyeing the gorgeous buttocks of the ape or Autumn sunsets exquisitely dying.

An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly, but he must also never be afraid to do what he might choose.

When peoples care for you and cry for you, they can straighten out your soul.

We Negro writers, just by being black, have been on the blacklist all our lives. Censorship for us begins at the color line.

What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up Like a raisin in the sun?... Or does it explode?

I will not take "but" for an answer.

I swear to the Lord, I still can't see, why Democracy means, everybody but me.

I have discovered in life that there are ways of getting almost anywhere you want to go, if you really want to go.

Like a welcome summer rain, humor may suddenly cleanse and cool the earth, the air and you.

Humor is laughing at what you haven't got when you ought to have it.

It's such a Bore Being always Poor.

Hold fast to your dreams, for without them life is a broken winged bird that cannot fly.

Beauty for some provides escape, who gain a happiness in eyeing the gorgeous buttocks of the ape or Autumn sunsets exquisitely dying.

Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.

Negroes - Sweet and docile, Meek, humble, and kind: Beware the day - They change their mind.

Hold fast to dreams For when dreams go Life is a barren field Frozen with snow.

Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly.

I live in Harlem, New York City. I am unmarried. I like 'Tristan,' goat's milk, short novels, lyric poems, heat, simple folk, boats and bullfights; I dislike 'Aida,' parsnips, long novels, narrative poems, cold, pretentious folk, buses and bridges.

I was a victim of a stereotype. There were only two of us Negro kids in the whole class, and our English teacher was always stressing the importance of rhythm in poetry. Well, everybody knows - except us - that all Negroes have rhythms, so they elected me class poet.

I will not take 'but' for an answer.

In all my life, I have never been free. I have never been able to do anything with freedom, except in the field of my writing.

My chief literary influences have been Paul Laurence Dunbar, Carl Sandburg, and Walt Whitman. My favorite public figures include Jimmy Durante, Marlene Dietrich, Mary McLeod Bethune, Mrs. Franklin D. Roosevelt, Marian Anderson, and Henry Armstrong.

My personal experience has been that in my 25 years of writing, I have not been asked to do more than four or five commercial one-shot scripts. These were performed on major national hook-ups but produced for me no immediate additional jobs or requests. One script for BBC was done around the world with an all-star cast.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

My writing has been largely concerned with the depicting of Negro life in America.

One of the great needs of Negro children is to have books about themselves and their lives that can help them be proud.

Perhaps the mission of an artist is to interpret beauty to people - the beauty within themselves.

The Jewish people and the Negro people both know the meaning of Nordic supremacy. We have both looked into the eyes of terror.

To my mind, it is the duty of the younger Negro artist, if he accepts any duties at all from outsiders, to change through the force of his art that old whispering 'I want to be white,' hidden in the aspirations of his people, to 'Why should I want to be white? I am a Negro - and beautiful!'

We younger Negro artists who create now intend to express our individual dark-skinned selves without fear or shame. If white people are pleased, we are glad. If they are not, it doesn't matter. We know we are beautiful. And ugly too.

What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up Like a raisin in the sun? Or does it explode?

Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die life is a broken-winged bird, that cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die. Life is a broken-winged bird, that cannot fly.

Life is for the living. Death is for the dead. Let life be like music. And death a note unsaid.

Hold fast to dreams for if dreams die life is a broken winged bird that cannot fly.

When peoples care for you and cry for you they can straighten out your soul.

Reach high, for the stars lie hidden in your soul. Dream deep, for every dream precedes the goal.

The sea is a desert of waves, A wilderness of water.

When it is not on the side of civil rights, then the law is not right, it is white.

Autumn arrives in early morning, but spring at the close of a winter day.

Unless a tree has borne blossoms in spring, you will vainly look for fruit on it in autumn.

I came back out here from England and I was there for a while and it was beautiful and it is just great to see London going from Spring to Summer and Autumn.

We cling to our own point of view, as though everything depended on it. Yet our opinions have no permanence; like autumn and winter, they gradually pass away.

In spring they lie flat at the first warmth, they ruin my summer and in autumn they smell of women.

It is only the farmer who faithfully plants seeds in the Spring, who reaps a harvest in the Autumn.

A strangely reflective, even melancholy day. Is that because, unlike our cousins in the northern hemisphere, Easter is not associated with the energy and vitality of spring but with the more subdued spirit of autumn?

I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.

Shuddering under the autumn stars, each year, the head sinks lower and lower.

There is a harmony in autumn, and a luster in its sky, which through the summer is not heard or seen, as if it could not be, as if it had not been!