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| Countee Cullen |
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| Sonnet | ||||
| Some for a little while do love, and some for long; And some rare few forever and for aye; Some for the measure of a poet´s song, And some the ribbon width of a summer´s day. Some on a golden crucifix do swear. And some in blood do plight a fickle troth; Some struck divinely mad may only stare, And out of silence weave an iron oath. So many ways love has none may appear The bitter best, and none the sweetest worst; Strange food the hungry have been known to bear, And brackish water slakes an utter thirst. It is a rare and tantalizing fruit Our hands reach for, but nothing absolute. |
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