“This is not water running here,
These thick rebellious streams
That hurtle flesh and bone past fear
Down alleyways of dreams.
This is a wine that must flow on
Not caring how or where,
So it has ways to flow upon
Where song is in the air.
So it can woo an artful flute With loose, elastic lips,
Its Measurement of joy compute
with blithe, ecstatic hips.” – Harlem Wine, Countee Cullen.