My Head Was Full Of Misty Fumes

Tain't No Use In You Cryin' . . . But Folks Is Meant To Cry 'bout Somethin' Or Other. Better Leave Things De Way Dey Is. Youse Young Yet. No Tellin' Whut Mout Happen Befo' You Die.

When Janie Looked Out Of Her Door She Saw The Drifting Mists Gathered In The West -- That Cloud Field Of The Sky -- To Arm Themselves With Thunders And March Forth Against The World. Louder And Higher And Lower And Wider The Sound And Motion Spread, Mounting, Sinking, Darking.

I Do Not Pray. . . . I Do Not Expect God To Single Me Out And Grant Me Advantages Over My Fellow Men. . . . Prayer Seems To Me A Cry Of Weakness, And An Attempt To Avoid, By Trickery, The Rules Of The Game As Laid Down. I Do Not Choose To Admit Weakness. I Accept The Challenge Of Responsibility.

Justice, Like Beauty, Is In The Eye Of The Beholder.

You Got To Go There To Know There.