Much Of Your Pain Is Self-chosen.

You Who Are Strong And Swift, See That You Do Not Limp Before The Lame, Deeming It Kindness.

You Often Say, "i Would Give, But Only To The Deserving." The Trees In Your Orchard Say Not So, Nor The Flocks In Your Pasture. They Give That They May Live, For To Withhold Is To Perish.

To Barter And Lose Is Better Than Not To Go Forth.

Youth Is A Beautiful Dream, On Whose Brightness Books Shed A Blinding Dust. Will Ever The Day Come When The Wise Link The Joy Of Knowledge To Youth's Dream? Will Ever The Day Come When Nature Becomes The Teacher Of Man, Humanity His Book And Life His School? Youth's Joyous Purpose Cannot Be Fulfilled Until That Day Comes. Too Slow Is Our March Toward Spiritual Elevation, Because We Make So Little Use Of Youth's Ardor.

You May Give Them Your Love But Not Your Thoughts, For They Have Their Own Thoughts. You May House Their Bodies But Not Their Souls, For Their Souls Dwell In The House Of Tomorrow, Which You Cannot Visit, Not Even In Your Dreams.