...unless The Exchange Be In

Thinking Is Always The Stumbling Stone To Poetry.

They Tell Me: If You See A Slave Sleeping, Do Not Wake Him Lest He Be Dreaming Of Freedom. I Tell Them: If You See A Slave Sleeping, Wake Him And Explain To Him Freedom.

Much Of Your Pain Is Self-chosen.

The Brooks Flow To Their Lover, The Sea, And The Flowers Smile At The Object Of Their Passion, The Light. The Mist Rolls Down To Its Beloved, The Valley. And I? In Me Is What Brooks Do Not Know, What Flowers Do Not Hear, What The Mist Does Not Apprehend. You See Me Alone In My Love, Solitary In My Yearning.

A Friend Who Is Far Away Is Sometimes Much Nearer Than One Who Is At Hand. Is Not The Mountain Far More Awe-inspiring And More Clearly Visible To One Passing Through The Valley Than To Those Who Inhabit The Mountain?