Thick February mists cling heavily To the dead earth and to each leafless tree, And closer down upon the hilltops draw, Dull forecasts there of bright, sure-coming spring; Yet the heart gathers hope and strange delight From this dear, unlovely, wished-for sight Of leaden-misted twilights lengthening.

Until we are all free, we are none of us free.

I am never going to write for the sake of writing.

Life's sharpest rapture is surcease of pain.

The Jewish problem is as old as history, and assumes in each age a new form. The life or death of millions of human beings hangs upon its solution; its agitation revives the fiercest passions for good and for evil that inflame the human breast.

Thou two-faced year, Mother of Change and Fate...

Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.