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The end has come, as come it must To all things; in these sweet June days The teacher and the scholar trust Their parting feet to separate ways.

June comes in with roses in her hand, but very often with a thick shawl on her shoulders, and a bad cold in her head.
Too young for love? Ah, say not so, While daisies bloom and tulips glow! June soon will come with lengthened day To practise all love learned in May.
June the month of months Flowers and fruitage brings too, When green trees spread shadiest boughs, When each wild bird sings too.
How the wind howls this morn About the end of May, And drives June on apace To mock the world forlorn And the world's joy passed away.
What is one to say about June--the time of perfect young summer, the fulfillment of the promise of earlier months, and with as yet no sign to remind one that its fresh young beauty will ever fade?
I know of nothing that makes one feel more complacent, in these July days, than to have his vegetables from his own garden. What an effect it has on the market-man and the butcher! It is a kind of declaration of independence.
Ah! how sweet to seem, love, Drugged and half aswoon With this luscious dream, love, In the heart of June.
Between April's youthful optimism and September's mature acceptance comes July; characterized both by longing and by hope, it constitutes a sort of horticultural midlife crisis.
It is now August, and the sun is somewhat towards his declination, yet such is his heat as hardeneth the soft clay, dries up the standing ponds, withereth the sappy leaves, and scorcheth the skin of the naked.
In these golden latter August days, Nature has come to a serene equilibrium. Having flowered and fruited, she is enjoying herself. I can see how things are going: it is a down-hill business after this; but, for the time being, it is like swinging in a hammock,--such a delicious air, such a graceful repose!
That August time it was delight To watch the red moons wane to white 'Twixt grey seamed stems of apple-trees; A sense of heavy harmonies Grew on the growth of patient night, More sweet than shapen music is.
. . . throbbing on and on, the pulse of heat Increases--reaches--passes fever's height, And Day slinks into slumber, cool and sweet, Within the arms of Night.
When August days are hot an' dry, When burning copper is the sky, I'd rather fish than feast or fly In airy realms serene and high.
I'm as corny as Kansas in August.
. . . lucky August, best of months For us, as for that Roman once--For you're a Leo, same as me (Isn't it comforting to be So lordly, selfish, vital, strong?
Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep, Fair as the garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde.
Now thin mists temper the slow-ripening beams Of the September sun: his golden gleams On gaudy flowers shine, that prank the rows Of high-grown hollyhocks, and all tall shows That Autumn flaunteth in his bushy bowers.
Can't tell what it is about Old October knocks me out!--I sleep well enough at night--And the blamedest appetite Ever mortal man possessed,--
The trees are in their autumn beauty, The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky. . . .
I cannot but remember When the year grows old--October--November--How she disliked the cold!
Bittersweet October. The mellow, messy, leaf-kicking, perfect pause between the opposing miseries of summer and winter.
November's sky is chill and drear, November's leaf is red and sear.
Autumn I love thy latter end to view In cold novembers day so bleak and bare When like lifes dwindld thread worn nearly thro Wi lingering pottering pace and head bleachd bare Thou like an old man bids the world adieu
Talk not of sad November, when a day Of warm, glad sunshine fills the sky of noon, And a wind, borrowed from some morn of June, Stirs the brown grasses and the leafless spray.
This sunlight shames November where he grieves In dead red leaves, and will not let him shun The day, though bough with bough be over-run.
The world is tired, the year is old, The faded leaves are glad to die.
Apart from the pleasures of gardening, November has beauty of its own. The Saxons called it the wind-month, for then the fishermen drew up their boats and abandoned fishing till the spring; it was called the slaughter-month, too, when pigs and cattle were salted down for preservation throughout the winter.
While November numbly collapses, this beech tree, heavy as death on the lawn, braces for throat-cutting ice, bandaging snow.
In drear nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity--The north cannot undo them With a sleety whistle through them, Nor frozen thawings glue them From budding at the prime.
The sun that brief December day Rose cheerless over hills of gray, And, darkly circled, gave at noon A sadder light than waning moon.
Yet my heart loves December's smile As much as July's golden beam; Then let us sit and watch the while The blue ice curdling on the stream.
In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding. Sweet lovers love the spring.
Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing.
Sweet spring, full of sweet dayes and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie; My musick shows ye have your closes, And all must die.
Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring, In triumph to the world, the youthful spring.
Still let my Song a nobler Note assume And sing th' infusive Force of Spring on Man; When Heaven and Earth, as if contending, vye To raise his Being, and serene his Soul. Can he forbear to join the general Smile Of Nature? Can fierce Passions vex his Breast, While every Gale is Peace, and every Grove Is Melody?
The Sun does arise, And make happy the skies; The merry bells ring To welcome the Spring.
What a strange thing, To be thus alive Beneath the cherry-blossoms!
The country ever has a lagging Spring, Waiting for May to call its violets forth, And June its roses. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Within the city's bound the time of flowers Comes earlier. Let a mild and sunny day, Such as full often, for a few bright hours, Breathes through the sky of March the airs of May, Shine on our roofs and chase the wintry gloom--And lo! our borders glow with sudden bloom.
The Spring! I shrink and shudder at her name! For why, I find her breath a bitter blighter! And suffer from her blows as if they came From Spring the Fighter.
For thou, O Spring! canst renovate All that high God did first create. Be still his arm and architect, Rebuild the ruin, mend defect; Chemist to vamp old worlds with new, Coat sea and sky with heavenlier blue.
. . . in my breast Spring wakens too, and my regret Becomes an April violet, And buds and blossoms like the rest.
Out of the city, far away With Spring to-day! Where copses tufted with primrose Give me repose, Wood-sorrel and wild violet Soothe my soul's fret.
A Light exists in Spring Not present on the Year At any other period--When March is scarcely here A Color stands abroad On Solitary Fields That Science cannot overtake But Human Nature feels.
For winter's rains and ruins are over, And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the night that wins; And time remembered is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
Spring goeth all in white Crowned with milk-white may: In fleecy flocks of light O'er heaven the white clouds stray:
I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration Of green fires lit on the soil of earth, this blaze Of growing, these smoke-puffs that puff in wild gyration, Faces of people blowing across my gaze!
I haven't seen a crocus or a rosebud, or a robin on the wing, But I feel so gay in a melancholy way that it might as well be spring.
Spring, of all seasons most gratuitous, Is fold of untaught flower, is race of water, Is earth's most multiple, excited daughter; And those she has least use for see her best.
Sumer is icumen in, Lhude sing cuccu! Groweth sed, and bloweth med, And springth the wude nu--Sing cuccu!
All-Conquering Heat, o intermit thy Wrath! And on my throbbing Temples potent thus Beam not so fierce! Incessant still you flow, And still another fervent Flood succeeds, Pour'd on the Head profuse. In vain I sigh And restless turn, and look around for Night.
Rich music breaths in summers every sound And in her harmony of varied greens Woods meadows hedgrows cornfields all around Much beauty intervenes Filling with harmony the ear and eye While oer the mingling scenes Far spreads the laughing sky
What is more gentle than a wind in summer? What is more soothing than the pretty hummer That stays one moment in an open flower, And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower?
Now the roses are coming into bloom; the azalea, wild honeysuckle, is sweetening the roadsides, the laurels are beginning to blow; the white lilies are getting ready to open; the fireflies are seen now and then, flitting across the darkness; the katydids, the grasshoppers, the crickets make themselves heard; the bullfrogs utter their tremendous voices, and the full chorus of birds make the air vocal with its melody.
Summer is coming, summer is coming. I know it, I know it, I know it. Light again, leaf again, life again, love again, Yes, my wild little Poet.
There is a temperate zone in the mind, between luxurious indolence and exacting work; and it is to this region, just between laziness and labor, that summer reading belongs.
As imperceptibly as Grief The Summer lapsed away--Too imperceptible at last To seem like Perfidy--
. . . while you gasp and pant And try to cool yourself--and can't--With soda, cream and lemonade, The heat at ninety in the shade,--Just calmly sit and ponder o'er These same degrees, with ninety more On top of them, and so concede The weather now is cool indeed!
In winter I get up at night And dress by yellow candle-light. In summer, quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day.
In the good old summer time, In the good old summer time, Strolling thro' the shady lanes with your baby mine; You hold her hand and she holds yours, And that's a very good sign That she's your tootsey wootsey In the good old summer time.
When th' summer landscape takes on a scuffed an' faded appearance like a over exposed ten dollar suit we know we are face t' face with dog days, that midsummer season o' th' year when all livin' things jist sorter peter out an' langour rules supreme in shop an' mart an' field.
'Tis wealth enough of joy for me In summer time to simply be.
We're a couple of sports, The pride of the tennis courts, In June, July, and August, We look cute when we're dressed in shorts.
This is summer, unmistakably. One can always tell when one sees schoolteachers hanging about the streets idly, looking like cannibals during a shortage of missionaries.
Summers are the best. And I figured summer was my best time for meeting someone, too, because in the summer people are looking for someone to snuggle up with for the winter. And because in the summer I could take off my shirt.
It is a custom in Ireland, among shoemakers, if they intoxicate themselves on Sunday, to do no work on Monday; and this they call making a Saint Monday or keeping Saint Crispin's day. Many here adopted this good custom from the example of the shoemakers.
MONDAY, n. In Christian countries, the day after the baseball game.
Poverty compels me To face the snow and sleet,--For pore wife and children Must have a crust to eat.--The sad wail of hunger It would drive me insane, If it wasn't for Blue-Monday When I git to work againe!
"As Monday goes, so goes the week," dames say. Refreshed, renewed, use well the initial day. And see! thy neighbour Already seeks his labour.
Blue Monday, how I hate blue Monday Have to work like a slave all day
Red beans were traditionally cooked while the Monday wash was drying on the line, and since New Orleans humidity made that an all-day job, the beans cooked for many hours.
Hangin' around Nothing to do but frown Rainy days and Mondays always get me down.
Tell me why I don't like Mondays, I wanna shoo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oot The whole day down.
It's just another manic Monday I wish it was Sunday 'Cause that's my fun day My I don't have to run day.
Richard doesn't like to give presents when you're supposed to give presents. Christmas and birthdays go right by. But when he goes out and buys something, say, because it's a Tuesday, he's terribly excited.
Tuesday had always been our day together. Most of my courses with Morrie were on Tuesday, he had office hours on Tuesdays, and when I wrote my senior thesis . . . it was on Tuesdays that we sat together. . . . We're Tuesday people.
My Wednesday nights came regularly round, our quartette parties came regularly off, my violincello was in good tune, and there was nothing wrong in my world--or if anything not much--or little or much, it was no affair of mine.
Half-way unto the end--the week's high noon. The morning hours do speed away so soon! And, when the noon is reached, however bright, Instinctively we look toward the night.
Why don't you come up and see me sometime? Come up on Wednesday, that's amateur night.
The housewife should kindle the Sabbath candles with a joyous heart and good will, for it is a great privilege accorded to her. It brings her the merit of holy sons, who will be Lights of the World in Torah, and who will increase peace on earth. It also merits her to give long life unto her husband. Therefore she should be careful in the observance of this Mitzwah.
Some days . . . are commonly deemed unlucky; among others, Friday labours under that opprobrium; and it is pretty generally held that no new work or enterprise should commence on that day. . . . A respectable merchant of the city of London informed me that no person there will begin any business, i. e. open his shop for the first time, on a Friday.
Midst the wealth of facts and fancies That our memories may recall, Thus the old school-day romances Are the dearest, after all!--When some sweet thought revises The half-forgotten tune That opened "Exercises," On "Friday Afternoon."
From feasts abstain; be temperate, and pray; Fast if thou wilt; and yet, throughout the day, Neglect no labour and no duty shirk: Not many hours are left thee for thy work.
I shall never forget Shabbat in my town. When I shall have forgotten everything else, my memory will still retain the atmosphere of holiday, of serenity pervading even the poorest houses: the white tablecloth, the candles, the meticulously combed little girls, the men on their way to the synagogue. When my town shall fade into the abyss of time, I will continue to remember the light and the warmth it radiated on Shabbat.
It was a nice way to remember, to gather those scattered Friday nights of candles strewn over childhood's inconsistent terrain. A token of memory, and also of history, the collective remembrance far beyond memory's reach.
When dirty Waters from Balconies drop, And dextrous Damsels twirle the sprinkling Mop, And cleanse the spatter'd Sash, and scrub the Stairs; Know Saturday's conclusive Morn appears.
With regard to Saturday afternoons, perhaps men who live by manual labour, and have families to support by it, cannot spend them better than in following the several callings in which they have employed themselves on the preceding days of the week. For industry will be no bad preparation for the Sabbath.
The evening of the last day of the week was always celebrated by what is styled on board of English vessels, "The Saturday-night bottles." Two of these were sent down into the forecastle, just after dark; one for the starboard watch, and the other for the larboard.
The common failings in that part of the country amongst the poor were Saturday-night drunkenness and looseness in the relations between young men and young women. Mrs. Caffryn's indignation never rose to the correct boiling point against these crimes.
Saturday night is the loneliest night in the week, Cause that's the night that my sweetie and I used to dance cheek to cheek.
. . . Saturday morning, all my tiredness gone away. Got my money and my honey, and I'm out on the stem to play.
Come Saturday morning I'm going away with my friend. We'll Saturday spend till the end of the day.
A congregation of Jews that reads from the Torah every Saturday, that includes babies and grandparents, the memories of Holocaust survivors and the enthusiasm of converts, will show you that you need not live and die on your own island of time. You are part of an extended family whose memories stretch back past Mount Sinai.
Two-headed Janus, opener of the softly gliding year, thou who alone of the celestials dost behold thy back, O come propitious to the chiefs whose toil ensures peace to the fruitful earth, peace to the sea.
A Drunkard cannot meet a Cork Without a Revery--And so encountering a Fly This January Day Jamaicas of Remembrance stir That send me reeling in--This moderate drinker of Delight Does not deserve the spring--
I do not like January very much. It is too stationary. Not enough happens. I like the evidences of life, and in January there are too few of them.
In the South we go in quest of spring as soon as Christmas is past and the new year begins. The first days of January find us searching among the last fallen leaves for purple violets and white hyacinths and the yellow buds of winter aconite.
Our Roman fathers gave the name of februa to instruments of purification. . . . The month is called after these things, because the Luperci purify the whole ground with strips of hide, which are their instruments of cleansing, or because the season is pure when once peace-offerings have been made at the graves and the days devoted to the dead are past. Our sires believed that every sin and every cause of ill could be wiped out by rites of purgation.
February makes a bridge and March breakes it.
It is now March, and the northern wind drieth up the southern dirt. The tender lips are now masked for fear of chapping, and the fair hands must not be ungloved. Now riseth the sun a pretty step to his fair height, and Saint Valentine calls the birds together where nature is pleased in the variety of love. . . . I hold it the servant of nature and the schoolmaster of art, the hope of labor and the subject of reason.
Remember March, the ides of March, remember.
It is the first mild day of March: Each minute sweeter than before, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . There is a blessing in the air, Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare, And grass in the green field.
Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The Ploughboy is whooping--anon--anon: There's joy in the mountains; There's life in the fountains!
Slayer of the winter, art thou here again? O welcome, thou that bring'st the summer nigh! The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain, Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky. Welcome, O March!
For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne!
And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast, And been bow'd to the earth by its fury; To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently pass'd, Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury,--Still, fill to the Future! and join in our chime, The regrets of remembrance to cozen, And having obtained a New Trial of Time, Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen!
The year Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course, It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful,--And they are not.
Good-by, Old Year! Good-by! We have seen sorrow--you and I--Such hopeless sorrow, grief and care That now, that you have come to die, Remembering our old despair, Tis sweet to say, "Good-by--Good-by, Old Year! Good-by!"
My pipe is out, my glass is dry; My fire is almost ashes too; But once again, before you go, And I prepare to meet the New: Old Year! a parting word that's true, For we've been comrades, you and I--I thank God for each day of you; There! bless you now! Old Year, good-bye!
Monday's child is fair of face, Tuesday's child is full of grace, Wednesday's child is full of woe, Thursday's child has far to go, Friday's child is loving and giving, Saturday's child has to work for its living, But a child that's born on the Sabbath day Is fair and wise and good and gay.
Solomon Grundy, Born on a Monday, Christened on Tuesday, Married on Wednesday, Took ill on Thursday, Worse on Friday, Died on Saturday, Buried on Sunday: This is the end Of Solomon Grundy.
You know that Munday is Sundayes brother; Tuesday is such another; Wednesday you must go to church and pray; Thursday is half-holiday; On Friday it is too late to begin to spin; The Saturday is half-holiday agen.
That all those that marry on Tuesdays and Thursdays, shall be happy. . . . Those that begin journies upon a Wednesday shall run through much danger.
When through the Town, with slow and solemn Air, Led by the Nostril, walks the muzled Bear; Behind him moves majestically dull, The Pride of Hockley-hole, the surly Bull; Learn hence the Periods of the Week to name, Mondays and Thursdays are the Days of Game.
When fishy Stalls with double Store are laid; . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Wednesdays and Fridays you'll observe from hence, Days, when our Sires were doom'd to Abstinence.
Last Monday nite I saw a fight Between Wednesday and Thursday Over Saturday nite Tuesday asked me what was going on I said "Sunday's in the meadow And Friday's in the corn."
O day most calm, most bright, The fruit of this, the next worlds bud, Th'indorsement of supreme delight, Writ by a friend, and with his bloud; The couch of time; cares balm and bay: The week were dark, but for thy light.
The Country Parson, as soon as he awakes on Sunday morning, presently falls to work, and seems to himselfe so as a Market-man is, when the Market day comes, or a shopkeeper, when customers use to come in. His thoughts are full of making the best of the day, and contriving it to his best gaines.
Of all the days that's in the week I dearly love but one day--And that's the day that comes betwixt A Saturday and Monday; For then I'm dressed all in my best To walk abroad with Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.
[Sunday] should be different from another day. People may walk, but not throw stones at birds. There may be relaxation, but there should be no levity.
There is something delightful in beholding the poor prisoner of the crowded and dusty city enabled thus to come forth once a week and throw himself upon the green bosom of nature. He is like a child restored to the mother's breast; and they who first spread out these noble parks and magnificent pleasure grounds which surround this huge metropolis have done at least as much for its health and morality as if they had expended the amount of cost in hospitals, prisons, and penitentiaries.
He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice.
In calm and cool and silence, once again I find my old accustomed place among My brethren, where, perchance, no human tongue Shall utter words; where never hymn is sung, Nor deep-toned organ blown, nor censer swung, Nor dim light falling through the pictured pane!
My father and mother were both of the old-fashioned orthodox school, with minds formed on Jeremy Taylor, Blair, South, and Secker, who thought it their duty to go diligently to church twice on Sunday, communicate four times a year (their only opportunities), after grave and serious preparation, read a sermon to their household on Sunday evenings, and watch over their children's religious instruction, though in a reserved, undemonstrative manner.
Some keep the Sabbath going to Church--I keep it, staying at Home--With a Bobolink for a Chorister--And an Orchard, for a Dome--
They have three Sundays a week in Tangier. The Muhammadans' comes on Friday, the Jews' on Saturday, and that of the Christian Consuls on Sunday.
. . . The laziest of all days--To git up any time--er sleep--Er jes' lay round and watch the haze A-dancin' crost the wheat, and keep My pipe a-goern laisurely.
Lie still and rest, in that serene repose That on this holy morning comes to those Who have been burdened with the cares which make The sad heart weary and the tired heart ache.
Cease from unnecessary labours, Saunter into the green world stretching far, Light a long cigar, Come, enjoy your Sunday While yet you may!
But Sunday was a gala day When, in their best attire, They'd listen, with rejoicing hearts, To Sermons on Hell Fire, Demons I've Met, Grim Satan's Prey, And other topics just as gay.
Eternity resembles One long Sunday afternoon.
Hate Sunday night. Feels like homework night.
One must never forget. . . . Hanukkah is the celebration of our war, the celebration of the war of God. In the present war we have forgotten the war of the living God, we have forgotten Matthias, the high priest.
Hanukkah commemorates and celebrates the first serious attempt in history to proclaim and champion the principle of religio-cultural diversity in the nation. The primary aim of the Maccabees was to preserve their own Jewish identity and to safeguard for Israel the possibility of continuing its traditional mission.
Hannukkah is the Festival of Lights. It commemorates an ancient Jewish rebellion against oppression, during which the Temple in Jerusalem was miraculously recaptured from pagan hellenizers and rededicated to the worship of God. The candles of Hanukkah celebrate that rededication. They also help brighten the long winter nights. . . . I also want another miracle. But if it does not come, we will make a human miracle. We will give the world the special gift of our Jewishness. We will not let the world burn out our souls.
A lack of clear and satisfying religious identity hurts American Jews most in December. . . . It is a good thing that Hanuka is then at hand. . . . The tale of the Feast of Lights, with its all-too-sharp comment on our life nowadays, is very colorful. It is of the greatest use in giving the young a quick grasp of the Jewish historic situation. The gifts win their attention. The little candles stimulate their questions. The observance seems tooled to the needs of self-discovery.
"Jewish Christmas"--that's what my gentile friends called Chanukah when I was growing up in Michigan in the thirties and forties. Anachronistic, yes, but they had a point. Observing the dietary laws of separating milk and meat dishes was far easier for the handful of Jewish families in our little town than getting through December without mixing the two holidays.
Those candles were laid out, friends invited, ingredients bought for latkes and apple pancakes, that holiday for liberation and the winter solstice when tops turn like little planets.
Millions of kids before me had spun the dreidl on this holiday and millions more would do so in many years to come. I saw myself as a passing bridge, a peon, a crucial component in an infinite chain. The accident of my Hispanic birth had only added a different cultural flavor to the already plentiful gallery of childhood smiles. I was, all Jewish children are, time-travelling Maccabees reenacting a cosmic festival of self-definition. This thought made me stronger, a superhero of sorts, a freedom-fighter with a mission: to smile was to remember, to insert myself in history.
The fact is that there is nowhere on the African continent a holiday named Kwanzaa. . . . Kwanzaa is an Afro-American holiday which by its very definition reflects the dual character of the identity and experience of the Afro-American people.
It's an African holiday created by African people. It speaks to me in a way it can't speak to people outside our culture. We honor and affirm our family, community, and culture.
To be sure, celebrating Kwanzaa is not an end in itself. Neither is having an Africa medallion swinging from your neck, wearing a kente cloth hat, or giving your children African names. Medallions, clothes, and newly created rites should remind us of our collective strength, and of the fact that this strength is manifest only through individual effort. What we are doing with Kwanzaa and "Afrocentricity" in general is using our culture as an ideal that each of us tries to live up to.
Every day of the year we must apply and practice the Nguzo Saba sincerely and faithfully to harvest success. If you wanted to sing like Whitney Houston, would you think of your music only once a week?. . . If you wanted to be a champion athlete like Michael Jordan, would you abuse your body, neglect your meals, and skip routine practice?
Like Christians at Christmas, African-Americans now have a choice. They can ignore the inevitable commercialization of Kwanzaa and keep the home candles burning. Or they can celebrate Kwanzaa in the old-fashioned American way--by commodifying it.
The seven principles of Kwanzaa--unity, self-determination, collective work and responsibility, cooperative economics, purpose, creativity and faith--teach us that when we come together to strengthen our families and communities and honor the lessons of the past, we can face the future with joy and optimism.
We ask you to imagine a world where African people all sing the same songs, all dance to the same music, all dream the same dreams, and all work for the same goals. This is the true purpose of Kwanzaa: to put us all on one accord. There will always be diversity in our songs, but we should strive to always make beautiful music.
Kwanzaa's success depends on exacerbating consciously or unconsciously, black people's sense of alienation from Christmas. With its fat white man who delivers toys and gifts to children, Christmas simply confirms many African Americans' perception that everything in American society reinforces the idea of white supremacy.
I sing the birth was born tonight, The Author both of life and light, The angels so did sound it; And like the ravished shepherds said, Who saw the light, and were afraid, Yet searched, and true they found it.
Kindle the Christmas Brand, and then Till Sunne-set let it burne; Which quencht, then lay it up agen, Till Christmas next returne.

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