By Countee Cullen
via the Poetry Foundation
If for a day joy masters me,
Think not my wounds are healed;
Far deeper than the scars you see,
I keep the roots concealed.
They shall bear blossoms with the fall;
I have their word for this,
Who tend my roots with rains of gall,
And suns of prejudice.
A Note from the Editor
Countee Cullen was born on this day in 1903. Read more from our collection of Harlem Renaissance poems.
Source: Copper Sun (1927)
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