Claude McKay

(15 September 1889 – 22 May 1948 / Clarendon)

Claude McKay Poems

41. On The Road 1/3/2003
42. One Year After 1/3/2003
43. Outcast 1/3/2003
44. Poetry 1/3/2003
45. Polarity 1/3/2003
46. Rest In Peace 1/3/2003
47. Romance 1/3/2003
48. Russian Cathedral 1/3/2003
49. Song Of The Moon 1/3/2003
50. Spring In New Hampshire 1/3/2003
51. Subway Wind 1/3/2003
52. Summer Morn In New Hampshire 1/3/2003
53. The Barrier 1/3/2003
54. The Castaways 1/3/2003
55. The City's Love 1/3/2003
56. The Easter Flower 1/3/2003
57. The Harlem Dancer 1/3/2003
58. The Lynching 1/3/2003
59. The Night-Fire 1/3/2003
60. The Plateau 1/3/2003
61. The Snow Fairy 1/3/2003
62. The Spanish Needle 1/3/2003
63. The Tired Worker 1/3/2003
64. The Tropics In New York 1/3/2003
65. The White City 1/3/2003
66. The White House 1/20/2003
67. The Wild Goat 1/3/2003
68. Thirst 1/3/2003
69. Through Agony 1/3/2003
70. To A Poet 1/3/2003
71. To O.E.A. 1/3/2003
72. To One Coming North 1/3/2003
73. To Winter 1/3/2003
74. Tormented 1/3/2003
75. Two-An'-Six 4/3/2010
76. When Dawn Comes To The City 1/3/2003
77. When I Have Passed Away 1/3/2003
78. White Houses 1/3/2003
79. Wild May 1/3/2003
80. Winter In The Country 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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