Claude McKay

(15 September 1889 – 22 May 1948 / Clarendon)

Claude McKay Poems

1. A Memory Of June 1/3/2003
2. A Prayer 1/3/2003
3. A Red Flower 1/3/2003
4. Absence 1/3/2003
5. Adolescence 1/3/2003
6. Africa 1/3/2003
7. After The Winter 1/3/2003
8. Alfonso, Dressing To Wait At Table 1/3/2003
9. America 1/3/2003
10. Baptism 1/3/2003
11. Birds Of Prey 1/3/2003
12. Commemoration 1/3/2003
13. Courage 1/3/2003
14. Dawn In New York 1/3/2003
15. December, 1919 1/3/2003
16. Enslaved 1/3/2003
17. Exhortation: Summer 1919 1/3/2003
18. Flame-Heart 1/3/2003
19. Flirtation 1/3/2003
20. Flower Of Love 1/3/2003
21. French Leave 1/3/2003
22. Futility 1/3/2003
23. Harlem Shadows 1/3/2003
24. Heritage 1/3/2003
25. Home Thoughts 1/3/2003
26. Homing Swallows 1/3/2003
27. I Know My Soul 1/3/2003
28. I Shall Return 1/3/2003
29. If We Must Die 1/3/2003
30. In Bondage 1/3/2003
31. Jasmines 1/3/2003
32. Joy In The Woods 3/21/2012
33. La Paloma In London 1/3/2003
34. Memorial 1/3/2003
35. Morning Joy 1/3/2003
36. My Mother 1/3/2003
37. North And South 1/3/2003
38. O Word I Love To Sing 1/3/2003
39. On A Primitive Canoe 1/3/2003
40. On Broadway 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

White Houses

Your door is shut against my tightened face,
And I am sharp as steel with discontent;
But I possess the courage and the grace
To bear my anger proudly and unbent.
The pavement slabs burn loose beneath my feet,
A chafing savage, down the decent street;
And passion rends my vitals as I pass,
Where boldly shines your shuttered door of glass.
Oh, I must search for wisdom every hour,

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