If The World 's A

Because Its Myriad Glimmering Plumes Like A Great Army's Stir And Wave; Because Its Golden Billows Blooms, The Poor Man's Barren Walks To Lave: Because Its Sun-shaped Blossoms Show How Souls Receive The Light Of God, And Unto Earth Give Back That Glow I Thank Him For The Goldenrod.

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.

Every True Friend Is A Glimpse Of God.

We Might All Place Ourselves In One Of Two Ranks The Women Who Do Something, And The Women Who Do Nothing; The First Being Of Course The Only Creditable Place To Occupy.

A Complete Autobiography Would Indeed Be A Picture Of The Outer And Inner Universe Photographed Upon One Little Life's Consciousness. For Does Not The Whole World, Seen And Unseen, Go To The Making Up Of Every Human Being?