Flowers Have An Expression Of Countenance As

Do Not Be Troubled Because You Have Not Great Virtues. God Made A Million Spears Of Grass Where He Made One Tree. The Earth Is Fringed And Carpeted, Not With Forests, But With Grasses. Only Have Enough Of Little Virtues And Common Fidelities, And You Need Not Mourn Because You Are Neither A Hero Or A Saint.

Every Man Is Full Of Music; But It Is Not Every Man That Knows How To Bring It Out.

Children Are The Hands By Which We Take Hold Of Heaven. By These Tendrils We Clasp It And Climb Thitherward. And Why Do We Think That We Are Separated From Them? We Never Half Knew Them, Nor In This World Could.

Any Man Can Work When Every Stroke Of His Hands Brings Down The Fruit Rattling From The Tree ... But To Labor In Season And Out Of Season, Under Every Discouragement... That Requires A Heroism Which Is Transcendent.

Mirth Is God's Medicine. Everybody Ought To Bathe In It. Grim Care, Moroseness, Anxiety,--all This Rust Of Life, Ought To Be Scoured Off By The Oil Of Mirth. It Is Better Than Emery. Every Man Ought To Rub Himself With It. A Man Without Mirth Is Like A Wagon Without Springs, In Which One Is Caused Disagreeably To Jolt By Every Pebble Over Which It Runs.