Every Artist Dips His Brush

When A Man Has No Longer Any Conception Of Excellence Above His Own, His Voyage Is Done, He Is Dead,--dead In Trespasses And Sin Of Blear-eyed Vanity.

May We Feel After Thee; Still Calling Out In The Darkness, As Children Waking In The Night Call "father," So May We Call Out For God; And, At Times, Even If We Do Not Hear Thy Voice, May There Be The Form Of A Hand Resting Upon Us, And That Shall Be Enough; For We Shall Take Hold Of It, Though It Be In The Dark, And It Shall Guide Us To The Growing Light; For The Day Shall Come, And The Release And Triumph.

Happy Is The Man Who Has That In His Soul Which Acts Upon The Dejected As April Airs Upon Violet Roots. Gifts From The Hand Are Silver And Gold, But The Heart Gives That Which Neither Silver Nor Gold Can Buy. To Be Full Of Goodness, Full Of Cheerfulness, Full Of Sympathy, Full Of Helpful Hope, Causes A Man To Carry Blessings Of Which He Is Himself As Unconscious As A Lamp Is Of Its Own Shining. Such A One Moves On Human Life As Stars Move On Dark Seas To Bewildered Mariners; As The Sun Wheels, Bringing All The Seasons With Him From The South.

Laugh At Your Friends, And If Your Friends Are Sore; So Much The Better, You May Laugh The More.

Some People Think Black Is The Color Of Heaven, And That The More They Can Make Their Faces Look Like Midnight, The More Evidence They Have Of Grace. But God, Who Made The Sun And The Flowers, Never Sent Me To Proclaim To You Such A Lie As That.