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THE FACE we choose to miss,
Be it but for a day—
As absent as a hundred years
When it has rode away.
--
p. 312. The Single Hound.

 

Emily Dickinson

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He rode as rides the hurricane;
He seem'd to swallow up the plain;
He rode as never man did ride,
He rode, for ghosts rode at his side,
And on his right a grizzled grim —
No, no, this tale is not of him.

 

Joaquin Miller

 

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity. But one hundred years later, we must face the tragic fact that the Negro is still not free.
One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land.

 

Martin Luther King

 

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

 

Alfred (Lord) Tennyson

 

Half a league half a league
Half a league onward
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred:
'Forward the Light Brigade
Charge for the guns' he said
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

 

Alfred (Lord) Tennyson

 

I miss it enormously. I miss the buzz. I miss the adrenalin and I miss shouting into the microphone. I miss the atmosphere, I miss the camaraderie. But I don't miss it as much as I might have done, because I haven't had a total withdrawal.

 

Murray Walker