the soul of conversation is sympathy

Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain waves, Her home is on the deep.

The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, that never mused on sorrow but its own.

Our land, the first garden of liberty's tree-- It has been, and shall be, the land of the free.

The smaller your reality, the more convinced you are that you know everything.

To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.

The being level speaks the language of art, music, color shape and pattern directly -- a language that requires no words -- is not limited by words -- nor does it have the specificity of words and thus cannot be broken onto parts that can be manipulated or analyzed by the intellect. It must be swallowed, whole not parsed, sorted and justified.