If We Must Die, O Let Us

I Know The Dark Delight Of Being Strange, The Penalty Of Difference In The Crowd, The Loneliness Of Wisdom Among Fools.

If A Man Is Not Faithful To His Own Individuality, He Cannot Be Loyal To Anything.

I Have Forgotten Much, But Still Remember The Poinsiana's Red, Blood-red In Warm December.

Human Dignity Is More Precious Than Prestige.

And, Hungry For The Old, Familiar Ways, I Turned Aside And Bowed My Head And Wept.