The Pine Is The Mother Of Legends.

The Ash Her Purple Drops Forgivingly And Sadly, Breaking Not The General Hush; The Maple Swamps Glow Like A Sunset Sea, Each Leaf A Ripple With Its Separate Flush; All Round The Wood's Edge Creeps The Skirting Blaze, Ere The Rain Falls, The Cautious Farmer Burns His Brush.

Now The Heart Is So Full That A Drop Overfills It; We Are Happy Now Because God Wills It.

The Holy Supper Is Kept, Indeed, In Whatso We Share With Anothers Need; Not What We Give, But What We Share, For The Gift Without The Giver Is Bare; Who Gives Himself With His Alms Feeds Three, Himself, His Hungering Neighbor, And Me.

In Creating, The Only Hard Thing Is To Begin: A Grass Blade's No Easier To Make Than An Oak.

All The Beautiful Sentiments In The World Weigh Less Than A Single Lovely Action.