Who is William Stanley Braithwaite

William Stanley Beaumont Braithwaite (December 6, 1878 – June 8, 1962) was an African-American writer, poet, literary critic, anthologist, and publisher. His work as a critic and anthologist was widely praised and important in the development of East Coast poetry styles in the early 20th century.

Personal life

Braithwaite was born in Boston, Massachusetts in 1878. According to Jill Lepore, his father "came from a wealthy British Guiana family; his mother was the daughter of a North Carolina slave." His father preferred that the children be educated at home, and until his untimely death, they were raised in a genteel household of means. Braithwaite married Emma Kelly in 1903; they had seven children. He died at his home at 409 Edgecombe Avenue home in Harlem afte...
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William Stanley Braithwaite Poems

  • Sic Vita
    Heart free, hand free,
    Blue above, brown under,
    All the world to me
    Is a place of wonder....
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Top 10 most used topics by William Stanley Braithwaite

World 1 Follow 1 Prove 1 Step 1 Shine 1 Duty 1 Mind 1 Brown 1 Place 1 Blue 1


William Stanley Braithwaite Quotes

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Comments about William Stanley Braithwaite

Deannamascle: near the end of april by william stanley braithwaite - poems |
Coach_mince54: william stanley braithwaite was an african-american writer, poet, literary critic, anthologist, and publisher. his work as a critic and anthologist was widely praised and important in the development of east coast poetry styles in the early 20th century.
Poetryoutloud: two women on the lone wet strand / (the wind’s out with a will to roam) / the waves wage war on rocks and sand, / (and a ship is long due home.) happy birthday william stanley braithwaite
Beineckelibrary: william stanley braithwaite papers 1.25 linear feet (5 boxes) + 2 broadside folders
Beineckelibrary: the best books of the year (1911) as the fairminded critic and candid publisher see them by william stanley braithwaite via wsb papers
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Poem of the day

Edgar Albert Guest Poem
The Killing Place
 by Edgar Albert Guest

We're hiking along at a two-forty pace
We 're making life seem like a man-killing race,
With our nerves all on edge and our jaws firmly set
We go rushing along; with our brows lined with sweat
And our cheeks pale and drawn every minute we dash,
And the goal that we 're after is merely more cash.

We 're out for the money, the greenbacks and gold,
...

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