The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.

When work becomes play, and play becomes your work, your life unfolds.

Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting.

As it is more blessed to receive, so it must be more blessed to receive than to give back.

Fortunately, we don't need to know how bad an age is. There is something we can always be doing without reference to how good or bad the age is.

Talking is a hydrant in the yard and writing is a faucet upstairs in the house. Opening the first takes the pressure off the second.

Our life runs down in sending up the clock. The brook runs down in sending up our life. The sun runs down in sending up the brook. And there is something sending up the sun. It is this backward motion toward the source, Against the stream, that most we see ourselves in, The tribute of the current to the source. It is from this in nature we are from. It is most us.