If You Cannot But Weep When Your

Your Children Are Not Your Children. They Are The Sons And Daughters Of Life's Longing For Itself. They Come Through You But Not From You, And Though They Are With You, Yet They Belong Not To You. You May Give Them Your Love, But Not Your Thoughts. For They Have Their Own Thoughts. You May House Their Bodies But Not Their Souls, For Their Souls Dwell In The House Of Tomorrow, Which You Cannot Visit, Not Even In Your Dreams. You May Strive To Be Like Them, But Seek Not To Make Them Like You. For Life Goes Not Backward, Nor Tarries With Yesterday.

For The Vision Of One Man Lends Not Its Wings To Another Man.

We Wanderers, Ever Seeking The Lonelier Way, Begin No Day Where We Have Ended Another, And No Sunrise Finds Us Where Left By Sunset. Even While The Earth Sleeps We Travel. We Are The Seeds Of That Tenacious Plant, And It Is In Our Ripeness And Our Fullness Of Heart That We Are Given To The Wind To Be Scattered.

Men Would Bless You Or Curse You; The Curse, A Protest Against Failure, The Blessing, A Hymn Of The Hunter Who Comes Back From The Hills With Provision For His Mate.

Progress Lies Not In Enhancing What Is, But In Advancing Toward What Will Be.