He Who Plants A Tree, Plants A

The Whole World Of Thought Lay Unexplored Before Me, - A World Of Which I Had Already Caught Large And Tempting Glimpses.

We Were Not Meant To Mask Ourselves Before Our Fellow-beings, But To Be, Through Our Human Forms, True And Clear Utterances Of The Spirit Within. Since God Gave Us These Bodies, They Must Have Been Given Us As Guides To Him And Revealers Of Him.

These Blossoms, Gathered In Familiar Paths, With Dear Companions Now Passed Out Of Sight, Shall Not Be Laid Upon Their Graves. They Live, Since Love Is Deathless. Pleasure Now Nor Pride Is Theirs In Mortal Wise, But Hallowing Thoughts Will Meet The Offering, Of So Little Worth, Wanting The Benison Death Has Made Divine.

To Different Minds, Poetry May Present Different Phases. To Me, The Reverent Faith Of The People I Lived Among, And Their Faithful Everyday Living, Was Poetry; Blossoms And Trees And Blue Shies Were Poetry. God Himself Was Poetry.

When I Heard That There Were Artists, I Wished I Could Some Time Be One. If I Could Only Make A Rose Bloom On Paper, I Thought I Should Be Happy! Or If I Could At Last Succeed In Drawing The Outline Of Winter-stripped Boughs As I Saw Them Against The Sky, It Seemed To Me That I Should Be Willing To Spend Years In Trying.