We Arc The Miracle Of Miracles, The

Happy Season Of Childhood! Kind Nature, That Art To All A Bountiful Mother; That Visitest The Poor Man's Hut With Auroral Radiance; And For Thy Nursling Hast Provided A Soft Swathing Of Love And Infinite Hope Wherein He Waxes And Slumbers, Danced Round By Sweetest Dreams!

The Glory Of A Workman, Still More Of A Master Workman, That He Does His Work Well, Ought To Be His Most Precious Possession; Like The Honor Of A Soldier, Dearer To Him Than Life.

Let Time And Chance Combine, Combine! Let Time And Chance Combine! The Fairest Love From Heaven Above, That Love Of Yours Was Mine, My Dear! That Love Of Yours Was Mine.

No Iron Chain, Or Outward Force Of Any Kind, Could Ever Compel The Soul Of Man To Believe Or To Disbelieve: It Is His Own Indefeasible Light, That Judgment Of His; He Will Reign And Believe There By The Grace Of God Alone!

Hero-worship Is The Deepest Root Of All; The Tap-root, From Which In A Great Degree All The Rest Were Nourished And Grown . . . Worship Of A Hero Is Transcendent Admiration Of A Great Man. I Say Great Men Are Still Admirable; I Say There Is, At Bottom, Nothing Else Admirable! No Nobler Feeling Than This Of Admiration For One Higher Than Himself Dwells In The Breast Of Men.