Words are worth little when the heart refuses to hear. Therefore, judge us by our works.

Perhaps it is how we are made; perhaps words of truth reach us best through the heart, and stories and songs are the language of the heart

Words are worth little when the heart refuses to hear. Therefore, judge us by our works.

Three things cannot be called back: the arrow when it speeds from the bow, the milk when the churn is upturned, the word when it leaps from the tongue.

Yet, there was once a king worthy of that name. That king was Arthur. It is paramount disgrace of this evil generation that the name of that great king is no longer spoken aloud except in derision. Arthur! He was the fairest flower of our race, Cymry's most noble son, Lord of the Summer Realm, Pendragon of Britain. He wore God's favour like a purple robe. Hear then, if you will, the tale of a true king.

That Arthur has not always existed seems odd to me. Like the wind on the moors and the wild winter stars, surely he has always lived . . . and always will.

Tell me the word that will win you, and I will speak it. I will speak the stars of heaven into a crown for your head; I will speak the flowers of the field into a cloak; I will speak the racing stream into a melody for your ears and the voices of a thousand larks to sing it; I will speak the softness of night for your bed and the warmth of summer for your coverlet; I will speak the brightness of flame to light your way and the luster of gold to shine in your smile; I will speak until the hardness in you melts away and your heart is free.