Yet Do I Marvel

by Countee Cullen Countee Cullen

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, “Yet Do I Marvel” from Color. Copyright 1925 by Harper & Brothers,
NY. Renewed 1953 by Ida M. Cullen. Copyrights held by The Amistad Research Center,
Tulane University. Administrated by Thompson and Thompson, Brooklyn, NY.

Source: My Soul’s High Song: The Collected Writings of
Countee Cullen
(Anchor Books, 1991)

Countee Cullen was perhaps the most representative voice of the Harlem Renaissance.
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