Yet Do I Marvel by Countee Cullen

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

Countee Cullen
Born: 30 May 1903, New York, USA
Nationality: American
Died: 9 January 1946, New York, USA

Probably raised by his maternal grandmother, Cullen was unofficially adopted at age 15 by the Reverend FA Cullen, minister of Salem ME Church, Harlem. He won a citywide poetry contest as a schoolboy and winning stanzas were widely reproduced. He attended New York University where Cullen won the Witter Bynner Prize and was elected Phi Beta Kappa. His poems were regular accepted by major American magazines and his first collection, Color, was published to critical acclaim in 1925

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