A wilted little plea, repeated.

One of my favorite lines from CYRANO:

I carry my adornments on my soul.

I do not dress up like a popinjay;

But inwardly, I keep my daintiness.

I do not bear with me, by any chance,

An insult not yet washed away—a conscience

To rags, a set of scruples badly worn.

I go caparisoned in gems unseen,

Trailing white plumes of freedom, garlanded

With my good name—no figure of a man,

But a soul clothed in shining armor, hung

With deeds for decorations, twirling—thus—

A bristling wit, and swinging at my side

Courage, and on the stones of this old town

Making the sharp truth ring, like golden spurs!

Far too many people are living out loud with nothing significant to say; except, perhaps, "look at me."

And I realize that there are times when the cannons need to thunder; there are times when the voices have got to reach to the sky.

But in deeds we shall be remembered.

And if not now......