Where Shall The Word Be Found, Where

What Is This Self-inside Us, This Silent Observer, Severe And Speechless Critic, Who Can Terrorize Us, And Urge Us Onto Futile Activity, And In The End, Judge Us Still More Severely For The Errors Into Which His Own Reproaches Drove Us?

Shape Without Form, Shade Without Color, Paralyzed Force, Gesture Without Motion; Those Who Have Crossed With Direct Eyes, To Death's Other Kingdom Remember Us-if At All-not As Lost Violent Souls, But Only As The Hollow Men The Stuffed Men.

My Life Is Light, Waiting For The Death Wind, Like A Feather On The Back Of My Hand.

Destiny Waits In The Hand Of God, Not In The Hands Of Statesmen.

Time Past And Time Future Allow But A Little Consciousness. To Be Conscious Is Not To Be In Time.