My father is a quiet man
With sober, steady ways;
For simile, a folded fan;
His nights are like his days.
My mother's life is puritan,
No hint of cavalier,
A pool so calm you're sure it can
Have little depth to fear.

And yet my father's eyes can boast
How full his life has been;
There haunts them yet the languid ghost
Of some still sacred sin.

And though my mother chants of God,
And of the mystic river,
I've seen a bit of checkered sod
Set all her flesh aquiver.

Why should he deem it pure mischance
A son of his is fain
To do a naked tribal dance
Each time he hears the rain?

Why should she think it devil's art
That all my songs should be
Of love and lovers, broken heart,
And wild sweet agony?

Who plants a seed begets a bud,
Extract of that same root;
Why marvel at the hectic blood
That flushes this wild fruit?

Fruit of the Flower (from Color, 1925)

My father is a quiet man
With sober, steady ways;
For simile, a folded fan;
His nights are like his days.

My father is a calm, steady man with a sober personality. He can be compared to a folded fan. His nights and days are the same.

My mother's life is puritan,
No hint of cavalier,
A pool so calm you're sure it can
Have little depth to fear.

My mother's life is very conservative and faultless. She doesn't throw her weight around. She's calm like a still pool of water, and you don't have to worry that what she appears to be is different from what she really is. What you see is what you get.

And yet my father's eyes can boast
How full his life has been;
There haunts them yet the languid ghost
Of some still sacred sin.

My father has had a full and interesting life, but his eyes reveal a long-ago sin that haunts him.

And though my mother chants of God,
And of the mystic river,
I've seen a bit of checkered sod
Set all her flesh aquiver.

Despite my mother's religious feelings, she can still be set aquiver by lust.

Why should he deem it pure mischance
A son of his is fain
To do a naked tribal dance
Each time he hears the rain?

The father shouldn't wonder why his son enjoys satisfying his natural urges as much as he (the father) does.

Why should she think it devil's art
That all my songs should be
Of love and lovers, broken heart,
And wild sweet agony?

The mother shouldn't wonder that it's the devil at work when her child enjoys singing about love, lust, and love lost.

Who plants a seed begets a bud,
Extract of that same root;
Why marvel at the hectic blood
That flushes this wild fruit?

I am the child of my parents, so don't be surprised that I am the way I am. I'm a chip off the block, an acorn off the tree, just like my parents.

Countee Cullen ([May 30?] 1903 – January 9, 1946) was an African-American poet who was a leading figure in the Harlem Renaissance.