Nothing In The World Is Easier In

To The Real Question, How Does It Feel To Be A Problem? I Answer Seldom A Word.

I Sit With Shakespeare And He Winces Not.

Why Did God Make Me An Outcast And A Stranger In Mine Own House? The Shades Of The Prison-house Closed Round About Us All: Walls Strait And Stubborn To The Whitest, But Relentlessly Narrow, Tall, And Unscalable To Sons Of Night Who Must Plod Darkly On In Resignation, Or Beat Unavailing Palms Against The Stone, Or Steadily, Half Hopelessly, Watch The Streak Of Blue Above.

There Can Be No Perfect Democracy Curtailed By Color, Race, Or Poverty. But With All We Accomplish All, Even Peace.

Men Must Not Only Know, They Must Act.