He Who Plants A Tree,

I Believe The Best Poetry Of Our Times Is Growing Too Artistic; The Study Is Too Visible. If Freedom And Naturalness Are Lost Out Of Poetry, Everything Worth Having Is Lost.

The Religion Of Our Fathers Overhung Us Children Like The Shadow Of A Mighty Tree Against The Trunk Of Which We Rested, While We Looked Up In Wonder Through The Great Boughs That Half Hid And Half Revealed The Sky. Some Of The Boughs Were Already Decaying, So That Perhaps We Began To See A Little More Of The Sky Than Our Elders; But The Tree Was Sound At Its Heart.

He Who Plants A Tree, Plants A Hope.

Whatever With The Past Has Gone, The Best Is Always Yet To Come.

If An Apple Blossom Or A Ripe Apple Could Tell Its Own Story, It Would Be, Still More Than Its Own, The Story Of The Sunshine That Smiled Upon It, Of The Winds That Whispered To It, Of The Birds That Sang Around It, Of The Storms That Visited It, And Of The Motherly Tree That Held It And Fed It Until Its Petals Were Unfolded And Its Form Developed.