You Have Your Ideology And I Have

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

If You Cannot But Weep When Your Soul Summons You To Prayer, She Should Spur You Again And Yet Again, Though Weeping, Until You Shall Come Laughing

Your Joy Is Your Sorrow Unmasked. And The Same Well From Which Your Laughter Rises Was Oftentimes Filled With Your Tears. And How Else Can It Be? The Deeper That Sorrow Carves Into Your Being, The More Joy You Can Contain. Is Not The Cup That Holds Your Wine The Very Cup That Was Burned In The Potter's Oven? And Is Not The Lute That Soothes Your Spirit, The Very Wood That Was Hollowed With Knives?

Trees Are Poems The Earth Writes Upon The Sky, We Fell Them Down And Turn Them Into Paper, That We May Record Our Emptiness.

Death Most Resembles A Prophet Who Is Without Honor In His Own Land Or A Poet Who Is A Stranger Among His People.