My dreams, my works must wait till after hell, Gwendolyn Brooks

I hold my honey and I store my bread 
In little jars and cabinets of my will. 
I label clearly, and each latch and lid 
I bid, Be firm till I return from hell. 
I am very hungry. I am incomplete. 
And none can give me any word but Wait, 
The puny light. I keep my eyes pointed in; 
Hoping that, when the devil days of my hurt 
Drag out to their last dregs and I resume 
On such legs as are left me, in such heart 
As I can manage, remember to go home, 
My taste will not have turned insensitive 
To honey and bread old purity could love. 

Truth, Gwendolyn Brooks

And if sun comes
How shall we greet him?
Shall we not dread him,
Shall we not fear him
After so lengthy a
Session with shade?

Though we have wept for him,
Though we have prayed
All through the night-years—
What if we wake one shimmering morning to
Hear the fierce hammering
Of his firm knuckles
Hard on the door?

Shall we not shudder?—
Shall we not flee
Into the shelter, the dear thick shelter
Of the familiar
Propitious haze?

Sweet is it, sweet is it
To sleep in the coolness
Of snug unawareness.

The dark hangs heavily
Over the eye