Since The Exodus, Freedom Has Always Spoken

The Violets Prattle And Titter, And Gaze On The Stars High Above.

Perhaps Already I Am Dead, And These Perhaps Are Phantoms Vain; - These Motley Phantasies That Pass At Night Through My Disordered Brain. Perhaps With Ancient Heathen Shapes, Old Faded Gods, This Brain Is Full; Who, For Their Most Unholy Rites, Have Chosen A Dead Poet's Skull.

The Lotus Flower Is Troubled At The Sun's Resplendent Light; With Sunken Head And Sadly She Dreamily Waits For The Night.

A Fool May Talk, But A Wise Man Speaks.

Reform Judaism Is Like Mock Turtle Soup-turtle Soup Without The Turtle