Claude McKay

(15 September 1889 – 22 May 1948 / Clarendon)

Claude McKay Poems

41. Rest In Peace 1/3/2003
42. The City's Love 1/3/2003
43. When I Have Passed Away 1/3/2003
44. The Tropics In New York 1/3/2003
45. I Know My Soul 1/3/2003
46. White Houses 1/3/2003
47. The White City 1/3/2003
48. The Tired Worker 1/3/2003
49. Commemoration 1/3/2003
50. Heritage 1/3/2003
51. Adolescence 1/3/2003
52. Alfonso, Dressing To Wait At Table 1/3/2003
53. French Leave 1/3/2003
54. Outcast 1/3/2003
55. Flirtation 1/3/2003
56. Absence 1/3/2003
57. Baptism 1/3/2003
58. A Prayer 1/3/2003
59. My Mother 1/3/2003
60. The Spanish Needle 1/3/2003
61. December, 1919 1/3/2003
62. After The Winter 1/3/2003
63. Exhortation: Summer 1919 1/3/2003
64. The Lynching 1/3/2003
65. Africa 1/3/2003
66. I Shall Return 1/3/2003
67. Courage 1/3/2003
68. The Harlem Dancer 1/3/2003
69. The Snow Fairy 1/3/2003
70. Flower Of Love 1/3/2003
71. Romance 1/3/2003
72. Dawn In New York 1/3/2003
73. Harlem Shadows 1/3/2003
74. A Red Flower 1/3/2003
75. Flame-Heart 1/3/2003
76. Birds Of Prey 1/3/2003
77. A Memory Of June 1/3/2003
78. America 1/3/2003
79. Enslaved 1/3/2003
80. If We Must Die 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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