And The Poorest Twig On The Elm-tree

The Stiff Rails Were Softened To Swan's-down, And Still Fluttered Down The Snow.

The Surest Plan To Make A Man Is, Think Him So.

And What Is So Rare As A Day In June? Then, If Ever, Come Perfect Days.

Laborin' Man An' Laborin' Woman Hev One Glory An' One Shame; Ev'y Thin' Thet' S Done Inhuman Injers All On 'em The Same.

The True Ideal Is Not Opposed To The Real But Lies In It; And Blessed Are The Eyes That Find It.