Harlem BY LANGSTON HUGHES

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?