He Who Plants A Tree, Plants A

Labor, In Itself, Is Neither Elevating Or Otherwise. It Is The Laborer's Privilege To Ennoble His Work By The Aim With Which He Undertakes It, And By The Enthusiasm And Faithfulness He Puts Into It.

The Beauty Of Work Depends Upon The Way We Meet It — Whether We Arm Ourselves Each Morning To Attack It As An Enemy That Must Be Vanquished Before Night Comes, Or Whether We Open Our Eyes With The Sunrise To Welcome It As An Approaching Friend.

Canst Thou Prophesy, Thou Little Tree, What The Glory Of Thy Boughs Shall Be?

Whoever Claims To Understand Another Person Completely, Is Either Entirely Ignorant Of Himself, Or Else Has A Nature So Small That He Can Measure It Easily, And Supposes It To Be The Standard Of Every Other Nature.

The Religion Of Our Fathers Overhung Us Children Like The Shadow Of A Mighty Tree Against The Trunk Of Which We Rested, While We Looked Up In Wonder Through The Great Boughs That Half Hid And Half Revealed The Sky. Some Of The Boughs Were Already Decaying, So That Perhaps We Began To See A Little More Of The Sky Than Our Elders; But The Tree Was Sound At Its Heart.