We Are Like Trees. We Wear All

Upon The Clothes Behind The Tenement, That Hang Like Ghosts Suspended From The Lines, Linking Each Flat, But To Each Indifferent, Incongruous And Strange The Moonlight Shines.

Human Dignity Is More Precious Than Prestige.

Deep In The Secret Chambers Of My Heart I Muse My Life-long Hate, And Without Flinch I Bear It Nobly As I Live My Part.

If A Man Is Not Faithful To His Own Individuality, He Cannot Be Loyal To Anything.

I Have Forgotten Much, But Still Remember The Poinsiana's Red, Blood-red In Warm December.