Through Woods And Mountain Passes The Winds,

Under The Spreading Chestnut Tree The Village Smithy Stands; The Smith, A Mighty Man Is He, With Large And Sinewy Hands; And The Muscles Of His Brawny Arms Are Strong As Iron Bands. . . . He Earns Whate'er He Can, And Looks The Whole World In The Face, For He Owes Not Any Man. . . . Toiling,-rejoicing,-sorrowing, Onward Through Life He Goes; Each Morning Sees Some Task Begin, Each Evening Sees It Close; Something Attempted, Something Done, Has Earned A Night's Repose.

There Are Favorable Hours For Reading A Book, As For Writing It.

That Which The Fountain Sends Forth Returns Again To The Fountain.

Sorrow And Silence Are Strong, And Patient Endurance Is Godlike.

None But Yourself Who Are Your Greatest Foe.