Yet Do I Marvel
I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind
And did He stoop to quibble could tell why
The little buried mole continues blind,
Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die,
Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus
Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare
If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus
To struggle up a never-ending stair.
Inscrutable His ways are, and immune
To catechism by a mind too strewn
With petty cares to slightly understand
What awful brain compels His awful hand.
Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:
To make a poet black, and bid him sing!
--Countee Cullen (March 30, 1903–January 9, 1946)
4 comments:
This makes me contemplate on some of the most important issues related to existence. Aunt, thanks for sharing this. Certainly an inspiration to me.
Ah, I'm very happy about that, talented you. Blessings, dear nephew.
I have never heard of this poet, thank you for introducing him to me.
Oh, I am so very happy to introduce him to you, Pam. I've been reading his poetry since middle school.
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