Claude McKay

(15 September 1889 – 22 May 1948 / Clarendon)

Claude McKay Poems

1. La Paloma In London 1/3/2003
2. Poetry 1/3/2003
3. Wild May 1/3/2003
4. Winter In The Country 1/3/2003
5. On A Primitive Canoe 1/3/2003
6. To O.E.A. 1/3/2003
7. Polarity 1/3/2003
8. The Plateau 1/3/2003
9. Russian Cathedral 1/3/2003
10. Futility 1/3/2003
11. The Wild Goat 1/3/2003
12. To A Poet 1/3/2003
13. Homing Swallows 1/3/2003
14. Commemoration 1/3/2003
15. Two-An'-Six 4/3/2010
16. One Year After 1/3/2003
17. Through Agony 1/3/2003
18. To Winter 1/3/2003
19. Jasmines 1/3/2003
20. O Word I Love To Sing 1/3/2003
21. On The Road 1/3/2003
22. Tormented 1/3/2003
23. Subway Wind 1/3/2003
24. The Night-Fire 1/3/2003
25. Morning Joy 1/3/2003
26. North And South 1/3/2003
27. Joy In The Woods 3/21/2012
28. To One Coming North 1/3/2003
29. Alfonso, Dressing To Wait At Table 1/3/2003
30. Flirtation 1/3/2003
31. Memorial 1/3/2003
32. Home Thoughts 1/3/2003
33. The Tired Worker 1/3/2003
34. The White City 1/3/2003
35. The White House 1/20/2003
36. The Tropics In New York 1/3/2003
37. French Leave 1/3/2003
38. Spring In New Hampshire 1/3/2003
39. Adolescence 1/3/2003
40. Heritage 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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