Never Be A Cynic, Even A Gentle

Oh, I Have Walked In Kansas Through Many A Harvest Field, And Piled The Sheaves Of Glory There And Down The Wild Rows Reeled: Each Sheaf A Little Yellow Sun, A Heap Of Hot-rayed Gold; Each Binder Like Creation's Hand To Mold Suns, As Of Old.

Let Not Young Souls Be Smothered Out Before They Do Quaint Deeds And Fully Flaunt Their Pride.

The Only Thing That A Man May Do That Is New, Is To Write Himself On Human Hearts.

Life Is A Loom, Weaving Illusion.

Never Be A Cynic, Even A Gentle One. Never Help Out A Sneer, Even At The Devil.