The Cynic Is One Who Never Sees

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.

October Is Nature's Funeral Month. Nature Glories In Death More Than In Life. The Month Of Departure Is More Beautiful Than The Month Of Coming - October Than May. Every Green Thin Loves To Die In Bright Colors.

If Men Had Wings And Bore Black Feathers, Few Of Them Would Be Clever Enough To Be Crows.

Greatness Lies Not In Being Strong, But In The Right Use Of Strength.

Gratitude Is The Fairest Blossom Which Springs From The Soul.