Research And Writing Are Lonely

There Is No Friend Like The Old Friend, Who Has Shared Our Morning Days, No Greeting Like His Welcome, No Homage Like His Praise: Fame Is The Scentless Sunflower, With Gaudy Crown Of Gold; But Friendship Is The Breathing Rose, With Sweets In Every Fold.

I Know Of No Teachers So Powerful And Persuasive As The Little Army Of Specialists. They Carry No Banners, They Beat No Drums; But Where They Are Men Learn That Bustle And Push Are Not The Equals Of Quiet Genius And Serene Mastery.

Men Are Idolaters, And Want Something To Look At And Kiss And Hug, Or Throw Themselves Down Before; They Always Did, They Always Will; And If You Don't Make It Of Wood, You Must Make It Of Words.

We Are All Sentenced To Capital Punishment For The Crime Of Living, And Though The Condemned Cell Of Our Earthly Existence Is But A Narrow And Bare Dwelling-place, We Have Adjusted Ourselves To It, And Made It Tolerably Comfortable For The Little While We Are To Be Confined In It.

These Are The Hands Whose Sturdy Labor Brings The Peasant's Food, The Golden Pomp Of Kings; This Is The Page Whose Letters Shall Be Seen, Changed By The Sun To Words Of Living Green; This Is The Scholar Whose Immortal Penspells The First Lesson Hunger Taught To Men; These Are The Lines That Heaven-commanded Toil Shows On His Deed, - The Charter Of The Soil!