Wake At Dawn With A Winged Heart

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.

Yet Has Not Man Wept At The Sounds? And Are Not His Tears Eloquent Understanding?

This For God And This For Myself; This For My Soul, And This Other For My Body?

Your Joy Can Fill You Only As Deeply As Your Sorrow Has Carved You.

Often Times I Have Hated In Self-defense; If I Were Stronger I Would Not Have Used Such A Weapon.