The Black Christ & Other Poems/Mood

by Countee Cullen

Mood

I THINK an impulse stronger than my mindMay some day grasp a knife, unloose a vial,Or with a little leaden ball unbindThe cords that tie me to the rank and file.My hands grow quarrelsome with bitterness,And darkly bent upon the final fray;Night with its stars upon a grave seems lessIndecent than the too complacent day.

God knows I would be kind, let live, speak fair,Requite an honest debt with more than just,And love for Christ's dear sake these shapes that wearA pride that had its genesis in dust,—The meek are promised much in a book I knowBut one grows weary turning cheek to blow.