You Are The Bows From Which Your

Give Your Hearts, But Not Into Each Other's Keeping. For Only The Hand Of Life Can Contain Your Hearts. And Stand Together Yet Not Too Near Together: For The Pillars Of The Temple Stand Apart, And The Oak Tree And The Cypress Grow Not In Each Other's Shadow.

You May Chain My Hands, You May Shackle My Feet; You May Even Throw Me Into A Dark Prison; But You Shall Not Enslave My Thinking, Because It Is Free!

We Are The Sons Of Sorrow; We Are The Poets And The Prophets And The Musicians.

Pity It Is We Drowse Too Soon Pity It Is We Fall Asleep Ere Our Song Encompass The Height Ere Our Hand Inherit The Deep

The Deeper That Sorrow Carves Into Your Being, The More Joy You Can Contain.