In all change, well looked into, the germinal good out-veils the apparent ill.

The devil doesn't know how to sing, only how to howl.

The desolation and terror of, for the first time, realizing that the mother can lose you, or you her, and your own abysmal loneliness and helplessness without her.

Nothing begins, and nothing ends, That is not paid with moan; For we are born in others pain And perish in our own.

Little Jesus, was Thou shy Once, and just so small as I? And what did it feel like to be Out of Heaven, and just like me?

Deep in my heart subsides the infrequent word, And there dies slowly throbbing like a wounded bird.

Agnosticism is the everlasting perhaps.