The Power To Love Is God's Greatest

Pity The Nation Whose Statesman Is A Fox, Whose Philosopher Is A Juggler, And Whose Art Is The Art Of Patching And Mimicking. Pity The Nation That Welcomes Its New Ruler With Trumpetings, And Farewells Him With Hootings, Only To Welcome Another Ruler With Trumpetings Again. Pity The Nation Whose Sages Are Dumb With Years And Whose Strong Men Are Yet In The Cradle. Pity The Nation Divided Into Fragments, Each Fragment Deeming Itself A Nation.

What Difference Is There Between Us, Save A Restless Dream That Follows My Soul But Fears To Come Near You?

The Lust For Comfort, That Stealthy Thing That Enters The House A Guest, And Then Becomes A Host, And Then A Master.

A Traveller I Am, And A Navigator, And Everyday I Discover A New Region Within My Soul.

Solitude Has Soft, Silky Hands, But With Strong Fingers It Grasps The Heart And Makes It Ache With Sorrow.