From Shakespeare’s Macbeth: Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,To the last syllable of recorded time;And all our yesterdays
“Our father is oldhe has a young one, best lovedonly son of his Mother. His brotheris dead. Don’t take him, please. Wewill give you our
Born into exile, I walk among the pillars Where our heroes fell. My head is bowed, yet Unbroken am I. I watch, Listen, learn secrets
In an undergrad Class many years ago, a Classmate, orthodox Jewish, nineteen, told Us about verbal abuse He’d endured by a Random passerby That morning,
For years have I borneThis sword, to surrender itWould permit the years To accumulate,Would then I die. But now wouldI lay it down at Your
He always wanted Something worth dying for. But He was alive, in Spite of himself. He Wondered if the French Foreign Legion would take him.