Men never know What they are doing. They always make a muddle Of their affairs, They always tie their affairs Into a knot They cannot untie. Then I come in Uninvited. They do not ask me in; I am the radical, The bomb thrower, I untie the knot That they have made, And they never thank me. TRUE LOVE Her love is true I know, Much more true Than angel’s love; For angels love in heaven Where a thousand harps Are playing. She loves in a tenement Where the only music She hears Is the cry of street car brakes And the toot of automobile horns And the drip of a kitchen spigot All day. Her love is true I know. EDWARD S. SILVERA I was born in Florida in the year 1906--moved to Orange, N. J., at an early age--graduated from Orange High School in 1924--am now a Junior at Lincoln University, Pennsylvania. Here I am a member of the varsity basket-ball and tennis teams and a member of Kappa Alpha Psi Fraternity. I get a great deal of pleasure out of observing life and then writing about it just as I see it. SOUTH STREET (Philadelphia, Pa.) South Street is not beautiful, But the songs of people there Hold the beauty of the jungle, And the fervidness of prayer. South Street has no mansions, But the hands of South Street men Built pyramids along the Nile That Time has failed to rend. South Street is America, Breast of the foster mother Where a thousand ill-kept children Vie for suck, with one another. JUNGLE TASTE There is a coarseness In the songs of black men Coarse as the songs Of the sea, There is a weird strangeness In the songs of black men Which sounds not strange To me. There is beauty In the faces of black women, Jungle beauty And mystery Dark hidden beauty In the faces of black women, Which only black men See. HELENE JOHNSON Helene Johnson was born twenty years ago in Boston, Mass., where she received her early education and attended Boston University for a short time. A year ago she came to New York to attend the Extension Division of Columbia University. Her work has appeared in _Opportunity_, _Vanity Fair_ and several New York dailies; and has been reprinted in _Palms_, _The Literary Digest_, and Braithwaite’s _Anthology_. WHAT DO I CARE FOR MORNING What do I care for morning, For a shivering aspen tree, For sun flowers and sumac Opening greedily? What do I care for morning, For the glare of the rising sun, For a sparrow’s noisy prating, For another day begun? Give me the beauty of evening, The cool consummation of night, And the moon like a love-sick lady, Listless and wan and white. Give me a little valley Huddled beside a hill, Like a monk in a monastery, Safe and contented and still, Give me the white road glistening, A strand of the pale moon’s hair, And the tall hemlocks towering Dark as the moon is fair. Oh what do I care for morning, Naked and newly born-- Night is here, yielding and tender-- What do I care for dawn! SONNET TO A NEGRO IN HARLEM