My Dreams, My Works, Must Wait, Till After Hell
I hold my honey and I store my bread
In little jars and cabinets of my will.
I label clearly and each latch and lid
I bid, be firm till I return from hell,
I am very hungry. I am incomplete.
And none can tell when I may dine again.
No man can give me any word but wait,
The puny light. I keep eyes pointed in;
Hoping that, when the devil days of my hurt
Drag out to their last dregs and I resume
On such legs as are left me, in such heart
As I can manage, remember to go home,
My taste will not have turned insensitive
To honey and bread old purity could love.
Gwendolyn Brooks
(1917-2000)
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