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Yet Do I Marvel. By Countee Cullen. I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind, And did He stoop to quibble could tell why. The little buried mole continues blind, Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die, Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus. Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare.
Countee Cullen (New York, 30 maggio 1903 – New York, 9 gennaio 1946) è stato un poeta statunitense uno dei maggiori autori afro-americani di sempre. Adottato dal reverendo Frederick Ashbury Cullen, da cui ha ereditato il cognome, crebbe nel quartiere Harlem della Grande mela ed ebbe un'educazione cristiana metodista.
African American Poetry (1870-1928) Judas Iscariot by Countee Cullen (1925) Editor's NoteI think when Judas' mother heardHis first faint cry the nightThat he was born, that worship stirredHer at the sound and sight.She thought his was as fair a frameAs flesh and blood had worn;I think she made this lovely nameFor him— "Star of my morn."As any ...
18 de fev. de 2016 · Mas, vc sabe quem foi Countee Cullen? Cullen foi um poeta americano que nasceu em 30 de maio de 1903 morreu em 09 de janeiro de 1946. Cullen era poeta, escritor e pesquisador e foi uma liderança no Harlem, bairro em que viveu. Cullen foi abandonado por sua mãe a foi criado por sua avó. Desde pequeno, Cullen se destacava na escola por suas ...
Countee Cullen (1903 – January 9, 1946) was an American poet who was a leading figure in the Harlem Renaissance.. Early life. Countee Cullen was possibly born on May 30, although due to conflicting accounts of his early life, a general application of the year of his birth as 1903 is reasonable.
Countee Cullen was a significant figure of the Harlem Renaissance, a period of extraordinary artistic and intellectual flourishing among Black Americans in the 1920s and 1930s. He is primarily known for his poetry, which often explores themes of race, identity, love, and faith.
Juggernauts of flesh that pass. Trampling tall defiant grass. Where young forest lovers lie, Plighting troth beneath the sky. So I lie, who always hear, Though I cram against my ear. Both my thumbs, and keep them there, Great drums throbbing through the air. So I lie, whose fount of pride,
