The world is sown with good; but unless I turn my glad thoughts into practical living and till my own field. I cannot reap a kernel of the good.

I prefer to stroll which has a buddy at nighttime, than by itself inside the light.

I long to accomplish a great and noble task, but it is my chief duty to accomplish small tasks as if they were great and noble.

Where once stood the steadfast pines, great, beautiful, sweet, my hand touched raw, moist stumps. All about lay broken branches, like the antlers of stricken deer. The fragrant, piled-up sawdust swirled and tumbled about me. An unreasoning resentment flashed through me at the ruthless destruction of the beauty that I love.

Everybody talks, nobody listens. Good listeners are as rare as white crows.

The breakage and agony rending us today will be our salvation if they drive us by new routes to meet it. No one can proxy for us a masterpiece of loving or experience for us the rapture of art or launch for us book ships freighted with sweet bread to strengthen man. As of old we must be our own seers, musicians and explorers, and to an extent vaster than ever before.

Every one of us is blind and deaf until our eyes are opened to our fellowmen, until our ears hear the voice of humanity.