Who am I? What will I be? Why am I here? Where am I going?
The deep spaces between stars , Fathomless as the cold shadow His mind cast.
Poetry is that which arrives at the intellect by way of the heart.
To live in Wales is to be conscious at dusk of the spilled blood that went into the making of the wild sky
The meaning is in the waiting.
The silence holds with its gloved hand the wild hawk of the mind.
Ah, what balance is needed at the edges of such an abyss. I am left alone on the surface of a turning planet. What to do but, like Michelangelo 's Adam, put my hand out into unknown space, hoping for the reciprocating touch?
I remember in the fifth grade my dad would take me to Manhattan to shop for clothes.
The Lord made it very clear at the start of this last dispensation that we were to take the gospel to all the world. . . . Whatever our age, capacity, Church calling, or location, we are as one called to the work to help Him in His harvest of souls.
Art is not truth; art is the lie which makes us see the truth.
The problem [ of the twenty-two million Afro-Americans] is so broad that it's going to take the inner working of all organizations.