Claude McKay

(15 September 1889 – 22 May 1948 / Clarendon)

Claude McKay Poems

1. Joy In The Woods 3/21/2012
2. Two-An'-Six 4/3/2010
3. Winter In The Country 1/3/2003
4. Wild May 1/3/2003
5. Homing Swallows 1/3/2003
6. Polarity 1/3/2003
7. Russian Cathedral 1/3/2003
8. To O.E.A. 1/3/2003
9. La Paloma In London 1/3/2003
10. To Winter 1/3/2003
11. One Year After 1/3/2003
12. Poetry 1/3/2003
13. When Dawn Comes To The City 1/3/2003
14. The Plateau 1/3/2003
15. Memorial 1/3/2003
16. Jasmines 1/3/2003
17. Subway Wind 1/3/2003
18. To One Coming North 1/3/2003
19. Morning Joy 1/3/2003
20. On The Road 1/3/2003
21. Tormented 1/3/2003
22. Summer Morn In New Hampshire 1/3/2003
23. On Broadway 1/3/2003
24. On A Primitive Canoe 1/3/2003
25. North And South 1/3/2003
26. Through Agony 1/3/2003
27. The Night-Fire 1/3/2003
28. To A Poet 1/3/2003
29. The Barrier 1/3/2003
30. The Easter Flower 1/3/2003
31. O Word I Love To Sing 1/3/2003
32. Spring In New Hampshire 1/3/2003
33. Song Of The Moon 1/3/2003
34. Futility 1/3/2003
35. The White House 1/20/2003
36. The Castaways 1/3/2003
37. Home Thoughts 1/3/2003
38. Rest In Peace 1/3/2003
39. Thirst 1/3/2003
40. When I Have Passed Away 1/3/2003
Best Poem of Claude McKay

If We Must Die

If we must die, let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursèd lot.
If we must die, O let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!
Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow!
What though before us lies the open grave?
Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly ...

Read the full of If We Must Die

Spring In New Hampshire

Too green the springing April grass,
Too blue the silver-speckled sky,
For me to linger here, alas,
While happy winds go laughing by,
Wasting the golden hours indoors,
Washing windows and scrubbing floors.

Too wonderful the April night,
Too faintly sweet the first May flowers,

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