He Who Sleeps In Continual Noise Is

If We Like A Man's Dream, We Call Him A Reformer; If We Don't Like His Dream, We Call Him A Crank.

Lord, For The Erring Thought Not Unto Evil Wrought: Lord, For The Wicked Will Betrayed, And Baffled Still: For The Heart From Itself Kept, Our Thanksgiving Accept. For Ignorant Hopes That Were Broken To Our Blind Prayer: For Pain, Death, Sorrow, Sent Unto Our Chastisement: For All Loss Of Seeming Good, Quicken Our Gratitude.

It Is The Still, Small Voice That The Soul Heeds, Not The Deafening Blasts Of Doom.

The Conqueror Is Regarded With Awe; The Wise Man Commands Our Respect; But It Is Only The Benevolent Man That Wins Our Affection.

I Wonder Why We Hate The Past So.