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?