If I Leave All For Thee, Wilt

Much Of The Possibility Of Being Cheerful Comes From The Faculty Of Throwing Oneself Beyond Oneself.

Men Of Science, Osteologists And Surgeons, Beat Some Poets, In Respect For Nature,-count Nought Common Or Unclean, Spend Raptures Upon Perfect Specimens Of Indurated Veins, Distorted Joints, Or Beautiful New Cases Of Curved Spine; While We, We Are Shocked At Nature's Falling Off, We Dare To Shrink Back From Her Warts And Blains.

Mountain Gorses, Do Ye Teach Us . . . . That The Wisest Word Man Reaches Is The Humblest He Can Speak?

"there Is No God," The Foolish Saith, But None, "there Is No Sorrow." And Nature Oft The Cry Of Faith In Bitter Need Will Borrow: Eyes Which The Preacher Could Not School, By Wayside Graves Are Raised; And Lips Say, "god Be Pitiful," Who Ne'er Said, "god Be Praised."

Why, What Is To Live? Not To Eat And Drink And Breathe,—but To Feel The Life In You Down All The Fibres Of Being, Passionately And Joyfully.