Poem by Claude McKay

Heritage

Now the dead past seems vividly alive,
And in this shining moment I can trace,
Down through the vista of the vanished years,
Your faun-like form, your fond elusive face. 
And suddenly some secret spring’s released,
And unawares a riddle is revealed,
And I can read like large, black-lettered print,
What seemed before a thing forever sealed.

I know the magic word, the graceful thought,
The song that fills me in my lucid hours,
The spirit’s wine that thrills my body through,
And makes me music-drunk, are yours, all yours.

I cannot praise, for you have passed from praise,
I have no tinted thoughts to paint you true;
But I can feel and I can write the word;
The best of me is but the least of you.

1. Alfonso, Dressing to Wait at Table
2. The Wild Goat
3. The Tired Worker
4. Tormented
5. Flirtation

Countee Cullen Heritage ("What is Africa to me:")

Print

1205 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version