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Countee Cullen - Fruit Of The Flower
Work rating: Medium

My father is a quiet man
With sober, steady ways;
For simile, a folded fan;
His nights are like his days. 
My mother`s life is puritan,
No hint of cavalier,
A pool so calm you`re sure it can
Have little depth to fear.

And yet my father`s eyes can boast
How full his life has been;
There haunts them yet the languid ghost
Of some still sacred sin.

And though my mother chants of God,
And of the mystic river,
I`ve seen a bit of checkered sod
Set all her flesh aquiver.

Why should he deem it pure mischance
A son of his is fain
To do a naked tribal dance
Each time he hears the rain?

Why should she think it devil`s art
That all my songs should be
Of love and lovers, broken heart,
And wild sweet agony?

Who plants a seed begets a bud,
Extract of that same root;
Why marvel at the hectic blood
That flushes this wild fruit?
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