I trust you as holy men trust God; you could do nought that was not pure and loving, though the deed might pierce me unto death.
What if my words Were meant for deeds.
Deeds are the pulse of Time, his beating life, And righteous or unrighteous, being done, Must throb in after-throbs till Time itself Be laid in stillness, and the universe Quiver and breathe upon no mirror more.
Our deeds are fetters that we forge ourselves.
Our deeds are like children that are born to us; they live and act apart from our own will. Nay, children may be strangled, but deeds never: they have an indestructible life both in and out of our consciousness.