The Tree Is But A Huge Boquet.

One Might As Well Attempt To Calculate Mathematically The Contingent Forms Of The Tinkling Bits Of Glass In A Kaleidoscope As To Look Through The Tube Of The Future And Foretell Its Pattern.

Any Man Can Work When Every Stroke Of His Hands Brings Down The Fruit Rattling From The Tree ... But To Labor In Season And Out Of Season, Under Every Discouragement... That Requires A Heroism Which Is Transcendent.

Love, In This World, Is Like A Seed Taken From The Tropics, And Planted Where The Winter Comes Too Soon; And It Cannot Spread Itself In Flower-clusters And Wide-twining Vines, So That The Whole Air Is Filled With The Perfume Thereof. But There Is To Be Another Summer For It Yet. Care For The Root Now, And God Will Care For The Top By And By.

The One Great Poem Of New England Is Her Sunday.

We Are Always On The Anvil; By Trials God Is Shaping Us For Higher Things.