Mirth Is The Sweet Wine Of Human

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.

There Is No Slave Out Of Heaven Like A Loving Woman; And Of All Loving Women, There Is No Such Slave As A Mother.

Boys Have Their Soft And Gentle Moods Too. You Would Suppose By The Morning Racket That Nothing Could Be More Foreign To Their Nature Than Romance And Vague Sadness. . . . But Boys Have Hours Of Great Sinking And Sadness, When Kindness And Fondness Are Peculiarly Needful To Them.

The Ignorant Classes Are The Dangerous Classes.

We Are But A Point, A Single Comma, And God Is The Literature Of Eternity.