Yet Do I Marvel by 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!

by Countee Cullen

Other poems by 'Countee Cullen'

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That Bright Chimeric Beast

The Loss of Love

The Shroud of Color

The Wise

To Certain Critics

A Brown Girl Dead

For A Lady I Know

For A Poet

From the Dark Tower

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