You Cannot Feed The Hungry On Statistics.

The Butterfly Long Loved The Beautiful Rose, And Flirted Around All Day; While Round Him In Turn With Her Golden Caress, Soft Fluttered The Sun's Warm Ray.... I Know Not With Whom The Rose Was In Love, But I Know That I Loved Them All. The Butterfly, Rose, And The Sun's Bright Ray, The Star And The Bird's Sweet Call.

It Is Only Kindred Griefs That Draw Forth Our Tears, And Each Weeps Really For Himself.

The Night Comes Stealing O'er Me, And Clouds Are On The Sea; While The Wavelets Rustle Before Me With A Mystical Melody.

I Live, Which Is The Main Point.

Poverty Sits By The Cradle Of All Our Great Men And Rocks All Of Them To Manhood.