To Me There Is Something Thrilling And

Why, Man Of Idleness, Labor Has Rocked You In The Cradle, And Nourished Your Pampered Life; Without It, The Woven Silk And The Wool Upon Your Bank Would Be In The Shepherd's Fold. For The Meanest Thing That Ministers To Human Want, Save The Air Of Heaven, Man Is Indebted To Toil; And Even The Air, In God's Wise Ordination, Is Breathed With Labor.

The Golden Age Is Not In The Past, But In The Future; Not In The Origin Of Human Experience, But In Its Consummate Flower; Not Opening In Eden, But Out From Gethsemane.

There Is No Happiness In Life, There Is No Misery Like That Growing Out Of The Dispositions Which Consecrate Or Desecrate A Home.

The Downright Fanatic Is Nearer To The Heart Of Things Than The Cool And Slippery Disputant.

The Night Comes For The Purpose Of Checking Our Busy Employment, And Introducing An Interval Of Repose Between The Links Of Our Action And Our Aspiration. It Draws Its Dim Curtain Around The Field Of Toil. It Buries The Objects Of Our Handiwork In Darkness, And Involves Them With Uncertainty. It Comes To The Relief Of The Exhausted Body And The Tired Brain. Our Powers, Harmonizing With The Diurnal Revolutions Of The Earth, Fail With The Failing Light, And A Merciful Providence Casts Around Us This Mantle Of Shadow, And Snatches Us From Our Occupation.