Music Sweeps By Me As A Messenger

Each Thought Is A Nail That Is Driven In Structures That Cannot Decay; And The Mansion At Last Will Be Given To Us As We Build It Each Day.

I Trust You As Holy Men Trust God; You Could Do Nought That Was Not Pure And Loving, Though The Deed Might Pierce Me Unto Death.

Mysterious Haunts Of Echoes Old And Far, The Voice Divine Of Human Loyalty.

For Pain Must Enter Into Its Glorified Life Of Memory Before It Can Turn Into Compassion.

One Has To Spend Many Years In Learning How To Be Happy.