The Mystery Of History Is An Insoluble

O Never Harm The Dreaming World, The World Of Green, The World Of Leaves, But Let Its Million Palms Unfold The Adoration Of The Trees Of All Man's Works Of Art, A Cathedral Is Greatest. A Vast And Majestic Tree Is Greater Than That.

The Morbid States Of Health, The Irritableness Of Disposition Arising From Unstrung Nerves, The Impatience, The Crossness, The Fault-finding Of Men, Who, Full Of Morbid Influences, Are Unhappy Themselves, And Throw The Cloud Of Their Troubles Like A Dark Shadow Upon Others, Teach Us What Eminent Duty There Is In Health.

I Have Known Men Who Thought The Object Of Conversion Was To Cleanse Them As A Garment Is Cleansed, And That When They Are Converted They Were To Be Hung Up In The Lord's Wardrobe, The Door Of Which Was To Be Shut, So That No Dust Could Get At Them. A Coat That Is Not Used The Moths Eat; And A Christian Who Is Hung Up So That He Shall Not Be Tempted, The Moths Eat Him; And They Have Poor Food At That.

At The Bottom Of Every Leaf-stem Is A Cradle, And In It Is An Infant Germ; The Winds Will Rock It, The Birds Will Sing To It All Summer Long, But The Next Season It Will Unfold And Go Alone.

A Man Who Does Not Love Praise Is Not A Full Man.