He Who Plants A Tree, Plants A

Like A Plant That Starts Up In Showers And Sunshine And Does Not Know Which Has Best Helped It To Grow, It Is Difficult To Say Whether The Hard Things Or The Pleasant Things Did Me The Most Good.

A Friend Is A Beloved Mystery; Dearest Always Because He Is Not Ourself, And Has Something In Him Which It Is Impossible For Us To Fathom. If It Were Not So, Friendship Would Lose Its Chief Zest.

Some Of Us Must Wait For The Best Human Gifts Until We Come To Heavenly Places. Our Natural Desire For Musical Utterance Is Perhaps A Prophecy That In A Perfect World We Shall All Know How To Sing.

When April Steps Aside For May, Like Diamonds All The Rain-drops Glisten; Fresh Violets Open Every Day: To Some New Bird Each Hour We Listen.

To Her Bier Comes The Year Not With Weeping And Distress, As Mortals Do, But, To Guide Her Way To It, All The Trees Have Torches Lit; Blazing Red The Maples Shine The Woodlands Through.