Sorrow Is Better Than Fear. Fear Is

I Am A Weak And Sinful Man, But God Put His Hands On Me, That Is All.

There Is Not Much Talking Now. A Silence Falls Upon Them All. This Is No Time To Talk Of Hedges And Fields, Or The Beauties Of Any Country. Sadness And Fear And Hate, How They Well Up In The Heart And Mind, Whenever One Opens Pages Of These Messengers Of Doom. Cry For The Broken Tribe, For The Law And The Custom That Is Gone. Aye, And Cry Aloud For The Man Who Is Dead, For The Woman And Children Bereaved. Cry, The Beloved Country, These Things Are Not Yet At An End. The Sun Pours Down On The Earth, On The Lovely Land That Man Cannot Enjoy. He Knows Only The Fear Of His Heart.

For It Is The Dawn That Has Come, As It Has Come For A Thousand Centuries, Never Failing.

In The Deserted Harbour There Is Yet Water That Laps Against The Quays. In The Dark And Silent Forest, There Is A Leaf That Falls. Behind The Polished Panelling The White Ant Eats Away The Wood. Nothing Is Ever Quiet, Except For Fools

The Tragedy Is Not That Things Are Broken. The Tragedy Is That Things Are Not Mended Again.