Fruit of the Flower – By Countee Cullen

My father is a quiet man


With sober steady ways;


For simile, a folded fan;


His nights are all like his days.



My mother’s life is puritan,


No hint of cavalier,


A pool so calm you’re sure it can,


Have little depth to fear.



And yet my father’s eyes can boast,


How full his life has been;


There haunts them yet the languid ghost


Of some still sacred sin.



And though my mother chants of God,


And of the mystic river,


I’ve seen a bit of checkered sod


Set all her flesh aquiver.



Why should he deem it pure mischance


A son of his fain


To do tribal dance


Each time he hears the rain?



Why should she think it devil’s art


That all my songs should be


Of love and lovers, broken heart,


And wild sweet agony?



Who plants a seed begets a bud,


Extract of that same root;


Why marvel at the hectic blood


That flushes this wild fruit?