It Is A Terrible Thing To See

The Hands Of Those I Meet Are Dumbly Eloquent To Me. The Touch Of Some Hands Is An Impertinence. I Have Met People So Empty Of Joy, That When I Clasped Their Frosty Finger-tips, It Seemed As If I Were Shaking Hands With A Northeast Storm. Others There Are Whose Hands Have Sunbeams In Them, So That Their Grasp Warms My Heart. It May Be Only The Clinging Touch Of A Child's Hand; But There Is As Much Potential Sunshine In It For Me As There Is In A Loving Glance For Others. A Hearty Handshake Or A Friendly Letter Gives Me Genuine Pleasure.

The Mystery Of Language Was Revealed To Me. I Knew Then That 'w-a-t-e-r' Meant The Wonderful Cool Something That Was Flowing Over My Hand. That Living Word Awakened My Soul, Gave It Light, Joy, Set It Free.

Certainly It Is One Of Our Sweetest Experiences That When We Are Touched By Some Noble Affection Or Pure Joy, We Remember The Dead Most Tenderly, And Feel More Powerfully Drawn To Them.

My Share Of The Work May Be Limited, But The Fact That It Is Work Makes It Precious.

We Differ, Blind And Seeing, One From Another, Not In Our Senses, But In The Use We Make Of Them, In The Imagination And Courage With Which We Seek Wisdom Beyond All Senses.