I Do Not Remember A Time Since

My Share Of The Work May Be Limited, But The Fact That It Is Work Makes It Precious.

Smells Are The Fallen Angels Of The Senses.

I Demand That The World Be Good, And Lo, It Obeys. I Proclaim The World Good, And Facts Range Themselves To Prove My Proclamation Overwhelmingly True. To What Good I Open The Doors Of My Being, And Jealously Shut Them Against What Is Bad. Such Is The Force Of This Beautiful And Willful Conviction, It Carries Itself In The Face Of All Opposition. I Am Never Discouraged By Absence Of Good. I Never Can Be Argued Into Hopelessness. Doubt And Mistrust Are The Mere Panic Of Timid Imagination, Which The Steadfast Heart Will Conquer, And The Large Mind Transcend.

The Hands Of Those I Meet Are Dumbly Eloquent To Me. The Touch Of Some Hands Is An Impertinence. I Have Met People So Empty Of Joy, That When I Clasped Their Frosty Finger-tips, It Seemed As If I Were Shaking Hands With A Northeast Storm. Others There Are Whose Hands Have Sunbeams In Them, So That Their Grasp Warms My Heart. It May Be Only The Clinging Touch Of A Child's Hand; But There Is As Much Potential Sunshine In It For Me As There Is In A Loving Glance For Others. A Hearty Handshake Or A Friendly Letter Gives Me Genuine Pleasure.

What Can Rulers, Nobility And All The Lords Of The Earth Say To Justify The Horrible Killing And Maiming Of Twenty Or Thirty Million Valuable Men Who A Short While Ago Ploughed, Dug, Wove, Built, Guided The Traffic Of The World, Took Their Pleasure, Loved Their Fellows, Cherished Their Families, And Feared Naught?