We Are Like Trees. We Wear All

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.

Idealism Is Like A Castle In The Air If It Is Not Based On A Solid Foundation Of Social And Political Realism.

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

Human Dignity Is More Precious Than Prestige.

And, Hungry For The Old, Familiar Ways, I Turned Aside And Bowed My Head And Wept.