Strew Gladness On The Paths

One Day Through The Primeval Wood A Calf Walked Home As Good Calves Should; But Made A Trail All Bent Askew, A Crooked Trail As All Calves Do. . . . . And Men Two Centuries And A Half Trod In The Footsteps Of That Calf.

Where Shall We Get Religion? Beneath The Open Sky, The Sphere Of Crystal Silence Surcharged With Deity.. The Midnight Earth Sends Incense Up, Sweet With The Breath Of Prayer -- Go Out Beneath The Naked Night And Get Religion There.

I Say The Very Things That Make The Greatest Stiran' The Most Interestin' Things, Are Things That Did N't Occur.

The Woods Were Made For The Hunters Of Dreams, The Brooks For The Fisher Of Song; To The Hunters Who Hunt For The Gunless Game The Streams And The Woods Belong. There Are Thoughts That Moan From The Soul Of The Pine And Thoughts In A Flower-bell Curled; And The Thoughts That Are Blown With The Scent Of The Fern Are As New And As Old As The World.

There Are Hermit Souls That Live Withdrawn In The Place Of Their Self-content; There Are Souls Like Stars That Dwell Apart, In A Fellowless Firmament; There Are Pioneer Souls That Blaze Their Paths Where Highways Never Ran,-- But Let Me Live By The Side Of The Road, And Be A Friend To Man.