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

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

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.

Let our first care today be the re-establishment of our physical strength, the reconstruction of our national organism, so that in future, where the respect due to us cannot be won by entreaty, it may be commanded, and where it cannot be commanded, it may be enforced.

Life's sharpest rapture is surcease of pain.

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

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