People Talk Fundamentals And Superlatives And Then

The Root Of Joy, As Of Duty, Is To Put All One's Powers Towards Some Great End.

There Is A Little Plant Called Reverence In The Corner Of My Soul's Garden, Which I Love To Have Watered Once A Week.

The Mode By Which The Inevitable Comes To Pass Is Effort.

Any New Formula Which Suddenly Emerges In Our Consciousness Has Its Roots In Long Trains Of Thought; It Is Virtually Old When It First Makes Its Appearance Among The Recognized Growths Of Our Intellect.

Our Dead Brothers And Sisters Still Live For Us And Bid Us Think Of Life, Not Death-of Life To Which In Their Youth They Lent The Passion And Glory Of Spring. As I Listen, The Great Chorus Of Life And Joy Begins Again, And Amid The Awful Orchestra Of Seen And Unseen Powers And Destinies Of Good And Evil, Our Trumpets Sound Once More A Note Of Daring, Hope, And Will.