O'er all my song the image of a face Lieth, like shadow on the wild sweet flowers. The dream, the ecstasy that prompts my powers; The golden lyre's delights bring little grace To bless the singer of a lowly race. Long hath this mocked... Read more of The Negro Singer at Martin Luther King.caInformational Site Network Informational
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SYDNEY SMITH, writing in the Edinburgh Review, says, If the English
were in a paradise of spontaneous productions, they would continue to
dig and plough, though they were never a peach or a pine-apple the
better for it.





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