Joy Is More Divine Than Sorrow, For

It Is One Of The Worst Effects Of Prosperity To Make A Man A Vortex Instead Of A Fountain; So That, Instead Of Throwing Out, He Learns Only To Draw In.

It Is Not Work That Kills Men; It Is Worry. Work Is Healthy; You Can Hard Put More Upon A Man Than He Can Bear. Worry Is Rust Upon The Blade. It Is Not The Revolution That Destroys The Machinery, But The Friction.

Happy Is The Man Who Has That In His Soul Which Acts Upon The Dejected As April Airs Upon Violet Roots. Gifts From The Hand Are Silver And Gold, But The Heart Gives That Which Neither Silver Nor Gold Can Buy. To Be Full Of Goodness, Full Of Cheerfulness, Full Of Sympathy, Full Of Helpful Hope, Causes A Man To Carry Blessings Of Which He Is Himself As Unconscious As A Lamp Is Of Its Own Shining. Such A One Moves On Human Life As Stars Move On Dark Seas To Bewildered Mariners; As The Sun Wheels, Bringing All The Seasons With Him From The South.

It Is Defeat That Turns Bone To Flint, Gristle To Muscle, And Makes Men Invincible.

A Very Common Flower Adds Generosity To Beauty. It Gives Joy To The Poor, To The Rude, And To The Multitudes Who Could Have No Flowers Were Nature To Charge A Price For Her Blossoms.