The Sun Does Not Shine

The Slave Labors, But With No Cheer - It Is Not The Road To Respectability, It Will Honor Him With No Citizens' Trust, It Brings No Bread To His Family, No Grain To His Garner, No Leisure In After-days, No Books Or Papers To His Children. It Opens No School-house Door, Builds No Church, Rears For Him No Factory, Lays No Keel, Fills No Bank, Earns No Acres. With Sweat And Toil And Ignorance He Consumes His Life, To Pour The Earnings Into Channels From Which He Does No Drink, Into Hands That Never Honor Him. But Perpetually Rob And Often Torment.

Every Tomorrow Has Two Handles. We Can Take Hold Of It With The Handle Of Anxiety Or The Handle Of Faith.

Music Cleanses The Understanding; Inspires It, And Lifts It Into A Realm Which It Would Not Reach If It Were Left To Itself.

The Sun Does Not Shine For A Few Trees, And Flowers, But For The Wide World's Joy. The Lonely Pine On The Mountain-top Waves Its Sombre Boughs And Cries, 'thou Art My Sun.' And The Little Meadow Violet Lifts Its Cup Of Blue, And Whispers With Its Perfumed Breath, 'thou Art My Sun.' And The Grain In A Thousand Fields Rustles In The Wind, And Makes Answer, 'thou Art My Sun.' So God Sits Effulgent In Heaven, Not For A Favored Few, But For The Universe Of Life; And There Is No Creature So Poor Or So Low That He May Not Look Up With Childish Confidence And Say, 'my Father, Thou Art Mine.

The Gravest Events Dawn With No More Noise Than The Morning Star Makes In Rising. All Great Developments Complete Themselves In The World And Modestly Wait In Silence, Praising Themselves Never, And Announcing Themselves Not At All. We Must Be Sensitive, And Sensible, If We Would See The Beginnings And Endings Of Great Things. That Is Our Part.