The Things That Hurt Us Teach Us.

The One Great Poem Of New England Is Her Sunday.

Nature Would Be Scarcely Worth A Puff Of The Empty Wind If It Were Not That All Nature Is But A Temple, Of Which God Is The Brightness And The Glory.

The Unthankful Heart... Discovers No Mercies; But Let The Thankful Heart Sweep Through The Day And, As The Magnet Finds The Iron, So It Will Find, In Every Hour, Some Heavenly Blessings!

The Sun Does Not Shine For A Few Trees, And Flowers, But For The Wide World's Joy. The Lonely Pine On The Mountain-top Waves Its Sombre Boughs And Cries, 'thou Art My Sun.' And The Little Meadow Violet Lifts Its Cup Of Blue, And Whispers With Its Perfumed Breath, 'thou Art My Sun.' And The Grain In A Thousand Fields Rustles In The Wind, And Makes Answer, 'thou Art My Sun.' So God Sits Effulgent In Heaven, Not For A Favored Few, But For The Universe Of Life; And There Is No Creature So Poor Or So Low That He May Not Look Up With Childish Confidence And Say, 'my Father, Thou Art Mine.

It Is Part And Parcel Of Every Man's Life To Develop Beauty In Himself. All Perfect Things Have In Them An Element Of Beauty.