There Is Nothing That Makes More Cowards

In The Morning, We Carry The World Like Atlas; At Noon, We Stoop And Bend Beneath It; And At Night, It Crushes Us Flat To The Ground.

Many Men Are Mere Warehouses Full Of Merchandise--the Head, The Heart, Are Stuffed With Goods. . . . There Are Apartments In Their Souls Which Were Once Tenanted By Taste, And Love, And Joy, And Worship, But They Are All Deserted Now, And The Rooms Are Filled With Earthy And Material Things.

While A Man Is Stringing A Harp, He Tries The Strings, Not For Music, But For Construction. When It Is Finished It Shall Be Played For Melodies. God Is Fashioning The Human Heart For Future Joy. He Only Sounds A String Here And There To See How Far His Work Has Progressed.

There Can Be No High Civilization Where There Is Not Ample Leisure.

Loving Is Like Music. Some Instruments Can Go Up Two Octaves, Some Four, And Some All The Way From Black Thunder To Sharp Lightning. As Some Of Them Are Susceptible Only Of Melody, So Some Hearts Can Sing But One Song Of Love, While Others Will Fun In A Full Choral Harmony.