As To The Pure Mind All Things

Build Today, Then Strong And Sure, With A Firm And Ample Base; And Ascending And Secure. Shall Tomorrow Find Its Place.

This Is The Place. Stand Still, My Steed,- Let Me Review The Scene, And Summon From The Shadowy Past The Forms That Once Have Been.

Every Man Is In Some Sort A Failure To Himself. No One Ever Reaches The Heights To Which He Aspires.

Our Pleasures And Our Discontents, Are Rounds By Which We May Ascend.

Look At This Vigorous Plant That Lifts Its Head From The Meadow, See How Its Leaves Are Turned To The North, As True As The Magnet; This Is The Compass-flower, That The Finger Of God Has Planted Here In The Houseless Wild, To Direct The Traveller's Journey. Over The Sea-like, Pathless, Limitless Waste Of The Desert, Such In The Soul Of Man Is Faith.