Blessed Are They Who Know How To

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.

Make Men Large And Strong And Tyranny Will Bankrupt Itself In Making Shackles For Them.

Pride Slays Thanksgiving, But A Humble Mind Is The Soil Out Of Which Thanks Naturally Grow. A Proud Man Is Seldom A Grateful Man, For He Never Thinks He Gets As Much As He Deserves.

What Profusion Is There In His Work! When Trees Blossom There Is Not A Single Breastpin, But A Whole Bosom Full Of Gems; And Of Leaves They Have So Many Suits That They Can Throw Them Away To The Winds All Summer Long. What Unnumbered Cathedrals Has He Reared In The Forest Shades, Vast And Grand, Full Of Curious Carvings, And Haunted Evermore By Tremulous Music; And In The Heavens Above, How Do Stars Seem To Have Flown Out Of His Hand Faster Than Sparks Out Of A Mighty Forge!

Leaves Die, But Trees Do Not. They Only Undress.