You Cannot Feed The Hungry

God Has Given Us Speech In Order That We May Say Pleasant Things To Our Friends, And Tell Bitter Truths To Our Enemies.

Our Sweetest Hopes Rise Blooming. And Then Again Are Gone, They Bloom And Fade Alternate, And So It Goes Rolling On. I Know It, And It Troubles My Life, My Love, My Rest, My Heart Is Wise And Witty, And It Bleeds Within My Breast.

And Once Again We Plighted Our Troth, And Titter'd, Caress'd, Kiss'd So Dearly.

The Air Grows Cool And Darkles, The Rhine Flows Calmly On; The Mountain Summit Sparkles In The Light Of The Setting Sun.

The Arrow Belongs Not To The Archer When It Has Once Left The Bow; The Word No Longer Belongs To The Speaker When It Has Once Passed His Lips, Especially When It Has Been Multiplied By The Press.