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By Claude McKay

Last night I heard your voice, mother,
The words you sang to me
When I, a little barefoot boy,
Knelt down against your knee.


And tears gushed from my heart, mother,
And passed beyond its wall,
But though the fountain reached my throat
The drops refused to fall.


‘Tis ten years since you died, mother,
Just ten dark years of pain,
And oh, I only wish that I
Could weep just once again.


  • Living
  • Relationships

Poet Bio

Claude McKay
After emigrating to America from Jamaica, Claude McKay became a central figure of the Harlem Renaissance. Whether protesting racial and economic inequities or expressing romantic attachment, his poetry communicates its themes through vivid imagery and moving language. See More By This Poet

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