The truth is... everything counts. Everything. Everything we do and everything we say. Everything helps or hurts; everything adds to or takes away from someone else.
So in the dark we hide the heart that bleeds, And wait, and tend our agonizing seeds.
Interpretation
What this quote means
This quote reflects the pain and struggle of concealing one's true emotions while nurturing hope for eventual healing or growth.
Countee Cullen's quote delves into the human experience of hiding one's emotional pain and vulnerability from the world. The imagery of a 'bleeding heart' symbolizes deep sorrow or suffering, while 'agonizing seeds' represents the potential for change or healing that requires patience and care. The act of waiting implies a sense of endurance amidst anguish, highlighting the complex relationship between suffering and the hope for renewal.
Themes
In practice
Example use cases
In a motivational speech about overcoming adversity, one might say, 'As Countee Cullen once expressed, we often hide our pain, yet it's in nurturing our struggles that we grow.'
More from Countee Cullen
All quotes βThere is no secret to success except hard work and getting something indefinable which we call 'the breaks.' In order for a writer to succeed, I suggest three things - read and write - and wait.
All day long and all night through, One thing only must I do: Quench my pride and cool my blood, Lest I perish in the flood.
Your love to me was like an unread book.
Similar quotes
Thou has left behind Powers that will work for thee,-air, earth, and skies! There 's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee; thou hast great allies; Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind.
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
Especially when the October wind With frosty fingers punishes my hair, Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire And cast a shadow crab upon the land, By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds, Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks, My busy heart who shudders as she talks Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.
And I will find some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,/ Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings.
America is a poem in our eyes; its ample geography dazzles the imagination, and it will not wait long for metres.