My Own Curiosity And Interest Are Insatiable.

There Is No Comfort Looking Forth Nor Back, The Present Gives The Lie To All Her Past.

Thick February Mists Cling Heavily To The Dead Earth And To Each Leafless Tree, And Closer Down Upon The Hilltops Draw, Dull Forecasts There Of Bright, Sure-coming Spring; Yet The Heart Gathers Hope And Strange Delight From This Dear, Unlovely, Wished-for Sight Of Leaden-misted Twilights Lengthening.

Until We Are All Free, We Are None Of Us Free.

Thou Two-faced Year, Mother Of Change And Fate...

Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor, Your Huddled Masses Yearning To Breathe Free.