Love That Stammers, That Stutters, Is Apt

In The Secret Of Night, My Prayer Climbs Like The Liana, My Prayer Is, And I Am Not. It Grows, And I Perish. I Have Only My Hard Breath, My Reason And My Madness. I Cling To The Vine Of My Prayer. I Tend It At The Root Of The Stalk Of Night.

My Grief And My Smile Begin In Your Face, My Son.

For Me, Religiosity Is ... The Constant Remembrance Of The Presence Of The Soul.

There Is The Joy Of Being Healthy And Fair, But There Is Overall The Beauty, The Immense Joy Of Being Useful.

Let The Radiance Of My Enthusiasms Envelop The Poor Courtyard And The Bare Classroom. Let My Heart Be A Stronger Column And My Goodwill Purer Gold Than The Columns And Gold Of Rich Schools.