The One Thing Finished In This Hasty

In The Earliest Ages Science Was Poetry, As In The Later Poetry Has Become Science.

And But Two Ways Are Offered To Our Will, Toil With Rare Triumph, Ease With Safe Disgrace, The Problem Still For Us And All Of Human Race.

No Man Is Born Into The World Whose Work Is Not Born With Him. There Is Always Work, And Tools To Work With, For Those Who Will, And Blessed Are The Horny Hands Of Toil. The Busy World Shoves Angrily Aside The Man Who Stands With Arms Akimbo Until Occasion Tells Him What To Do; And He Who Waits To Have His Task Marked Out Shall Die And Leave His Errand Unfulfilled.

Not A Change For The Better In Our Human Housekeeping Has Ever Taken Place That Wise And Good Men Have Not Opposed It-have Not Prophesied That The World Would Wake Up To Find Its Throat Cut In Consequence.

No Sincere Desire Of Doing Good Need Make An Enemy Of A Single Human Being; That Philanthropy Has Surely A Flaw In It Which Cannot Sympathize With The Oppressor Equally As With The Oppressed.