The Tree Is A Slow, Enduring Force

It Is The Savor Of Bread Broken With Comrades That Makes Us Accept The Values Of War.

It Was The Contemplation Of God That Created Men Who Were Equal, For It Was In God That They Were Equal.

Surely A Man Needs A Closed Place Wherein He May Strike Root And, Like The Seed, Become. But Also He Needs The Great Milky Way Above Him And The Vast Sea Spaces, Though Neither Stars Nor Ocean Serve His Daily Needs.

He Who Bears In His Heart A Cathedral To Be Built Is Already Victorious. He Who Seeks To Become Sexton Of A Finished Cathedral Is Already Defeated.

The Job Has Its Grandeurs, Yes. There Is The Exultation Of Arriving Safely After A Storm, The Joy Of Gliding Down Out Of The Darkness Of Night Or Tempest Toward A Sun-drenched Alicante Or Santiago; There Is The Swelling Sense Of Returning To Repossess One's Place In Life, In The Miraculous Garden Of Earth, Where Are Trees And Women And, Down By The Harbor, Friendly Little Bars. When He Has Throttled His Engine And Is Banking Into The Airport, Leaving The Somber Cloud Masses Behind, What Pilot Does Not Break Into Song?