I knew the poor, I knew the hideous death they die, when famine lays its bleak hand on the door; I knew the rich, sated with merriment, who yet are s….

Not God with wine, nor death, nor hate for a cry, but God with a song.

No one knows, the heart of a child, how it grows until it is too late..

Love that I bear within my breast how is my armour melted how my heart.