The Secret Of The Man Who Is

Out Of The Fragrant Heart Of Bloom, The Bobolinks Are Singing; Out Of The Fragrant Heart Of Bloom The Apple-tree Whispers To The Room, "why Art Thou But A Nest Of Gloom While The Bobolinks Are Singing?

Each One Of Us Must Suffer Long To Himself Before He Can Learn That He Is But One In A Great Community Of Wretchedness Which Has Been Pitilessly Repeating Itself From The Foundation Of The World.

A Man Never Sees All That His Mother Has Been To Him Until It's Too Late To Let Her Know That He Sees It.

In Europe Life Is Histrionic And Dramatized, And In America, Except When It Is Trying To Be European, It Is Direct And Sincere.

It Is The Still, Small Voice That The Soul Heeds, Not The Deafening Blasts Of Doom.