When We Turn To One Another For

A Little Knowledge That Acts Is Worth Infinitely More Than Much Knowledge That Is Idle.

You Can Muffle The Drum, And You Can Loosen The Strings Of The Lyre, But Who Shall Command The Skylark Not To Sing?

The Mother Is Everything - She Is Our Consolation In Sorrow, Our Hope In Misery, And Our Strength In Weakness. She Is The Source Of Love, Mercy, Sympathy, And Forgiveness. He Who Loses His Mother Loses A Pure Soul Who Blesses And Guards Him Constantly

The Poet Is A Bird Of Strange Moods. He Descends From His Lofty Domain To Tarry Among Us, Singing; If We Do Not Honor Him He Will Unfold His Wings And Fly Back To His Dwelling Place.

You, The Strong, Have I Loved, Though The Marks Of Your Iron Hoofs Are Yet Upon My Flesh.