Harlem

What happens to a dream deferred?        

Does it dry up       

like a raisin in the sun?       

Or fester like a sore—       

And then run?       

Does it stink like rotten meat?       

Or crust and sugar over—       

like a syrupy sweet?        

Maybe it just sags       

like a heavy load.        

Or does it explode?

The apparition of these faces in the crowd: 

Petals on a wet, black bough.

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.