Never be a cynic, even a gentle one. Never help out a sneer, even at the devil.
The crooning turns to a sunrise singing.
Life is a loom, weaving illusion.
Oh, I have walked in Kansas Through many a harvest field, And piled the sheaves of glory there And down the wild rows reeled: Each sheaf a little yellow sun, A heap of hot-rayed gold; Each binder like Creation's hand To mold suns, as of old.
Authors and uncaptured criminals are the only people free from routine.
To live in mankind is far more than to live in a name.