Striving to tell his woes, words would not come; For light cares speak, when mighty griefs are dumb.
“When the baby dies, On every side Rose stranger's voices, hard and harsh and loud. The baby was not wrapped in any shroud. The mother made no sound. Her head was bowed That men's eyes might not see Her misery.”
“Occasionally I do things against my inner voice, but you really should go for the thing that touches you most-even if you don't quite know why it does.”