Ah, How Good It Feels! The Hand

Under A Spreading Chestnut-tree The Village Smithy Stands; The Smith, A Mighty Man Is He, With Large And Sinewy Hands; And The Muscles Of His Brawny Arms Are Strong As Iron Bands.

For Next To Being A Great Poet Is The Power Of Understanding One.

The Everyday Cares And Duties, Which Men Call Drudgery, Are The Weights And Counterpoises Of The Clock Of Time, Giving Its Pendulum A True Vibration And Its Hands A Regular Motion; And When They Cease To Hang Upon Its Wheels, The Pendulum No Longer Swings, The Hands No Longer Move The Clock Stands Still.

O Suffering, Sad Humanity! O Ye Afflicted Ones, Who Lie Steeped To The Lips In Misery, Longing, Yet Afraid To Die, Patient, Though Sorely Tried!

My Designs And Labors And Aspirations Are My Only Friends.