It Is Not Work That

Let The Grateful Heart Sweep Through The Day That It May Recognize In Every Hour Some Sweet Blessing.

But There Have Been Human Hearts, Constituted Just Like Ours, For Six Thousand Years. The Same Stars Rise And Set Upon This Globe That Rose Upon The Plains Of Shinar Or Along The Egyptian Nile And The Same Sorrows Rise And Set In Every Age.

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.

Ambition Is The Way In Which A Vulgar Man Aspires.

It Is Not Merely Cruelty That Leads Men To Love War, It Is Excitement.