We are each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly by embracing one another.

Though the dungeon, the scourge and the executioner be absent, the guilty mind can apply the goad and scorch with blows.

Sweet it is when on the high seas the winds are lashing the waters to gaze from the land on another's struggles.

The drops of rain make a hole in the stone not by violence but by oft falling.