Georgia Douglas Johnson Quotes

Against the day of sorrow Lay by some trifling thing A smile, a kiss, a flower, For sweet remembering

Your world is as big as you make it. I know, for I used to abide In the narrowest nest in a corner, My wings pressing close to my side.

When I rise up above the earth, And look down on the things that fetter me, I beat my wings upon the air, Or tranquil lie, Surge after surge of potent strength Like incense comes to me When I rise up above the earth And look down upon the things that fetter me

How much living have you done? From it the patterns that you weave Are imaged: Your own life is your totem pole, Your yard of cloth, Your living. How much loving have you done? How full and free your giving? For living is but loving And loving only giving.

Lost Illusions" Oh, for the veils of my far away youth, Shielding my heart from the blaze of the truth, Why did I stray from their shelter and grow Into the sadness that follows—to know! Impotent atom with desolate gaze Threading the tumult of hazardous ways— Oh, for the veils, for the veils of my youth Veils that hung low o’er the blaze of the truth!

Your world is as big as you make it. I know, for I used to abide In the narrowest nest in a corner, My wings pressing close to my side. But I sighted the distant horizon Where the skyline encircled the sea And I throbbed with a burning desire To travel this immensity. I battered the cordons around me And cradled my wings on the breeze, Then soared to the uttermost reaches With rapture, with power, with ease!

Frail children of sorrow, dethroned by a hue, The shadows are flecked by the rose sifting through, The world has its motion, all things pass away; No night is omnipotent, there must be day! The oak tarries long in the depths of the seed But swift is the season of nettle and weed, Abide yet awhile in the mellowing shade And rise with the hour for which you were made. The cycle of seasons, the tidals of man, Revolve in the orb of the infinite plan; We move to the rhythm of ages long done, And each has his hour — to dwell in the sun!

Georgia Douglas Johnson’s An Autumn Love Cycle to Archibald Motley’s vibrant paintings of nightlife—both in Paris and here in Bronzeville.

A woman's heart goes down with the night, And enters some alien cage in its plight, And tries to forget it has dreamed of the stars While it breaks, breaks, breaks on the sheltering bars.