Those Who Plant Trees Plant Hope.

The First Real Unhappiness I Remember To Have Felt Was When Some One Told Me, One Day, That I Did Not Love God. I Insisted, Almost Tearfully, That I Did; But I Was Told That If I Did Truly Love Him I Should Always Be Good. I Knew I Was Not That, And The Feeling Of Sudden Orphanage Came Over Me Like A Bewildering Cloud.

From The First Opening Of Our Eyes, It Is The Light That Attracts Us. We Clutch Aimlessly With Our Baby Fingers At The Gossamer-motes In The Sunbeam, And We Die Reaching Out After An Ineffable Blending Of Earthly And Heavenly Beauty Which We Shall Never Fully Comprehend.

To Different Minds, Poetry May Present Different Phases. To Me, The Reverent Faith Of The People I Lived Among, And Their Faithful Everyday Living, Was Poetry; Blossoms And Trees And Blue Shies Were Poetry. God Himself Was Poetry.

If An Apple Blossom Or A Ripe Apple Could Tell Its Own Story, It Would Be, Still More Than Its Own, The Story Of The Sunshine That Smiled Upon It, Of The Winds That Whispered To It, Of The Birds That Sang Around It, Of The Storms That Visited It, And Of The Motherly Tree That Held It And Fed It Until Its Petals Were Unfolded And Its Form Developed.

A Journal Of The 'subjective' Kind I Have Always Thought Foolish, As Nurturing A Morbid Self -consciousness In The Writer; And Yet, Alone So Much As I Am, It Is Well To Have Some Sort Of A Ventilator From The Interior.