BE it not mine to steal the cultured flower
From any garden of the rich and great,
Nor seek with care, through many a weary hour,
Some novel form of wonder to create.
Enough for me the leafy woods to rove,
And gather simple cups of morning dew,
Or, in the fields and meadows that I love,
Find beauty in their bells of every hue.
Thus round my cottage floats a fragrant air,
And though the rustic plot be humbly laid,
Yet, like the lilies gladly growing there,
I have not toil’d, but take what God has made.
My Lord Ambition pass’d and smiled in scorn;
I pluck’d a rose, and lo! it had no thorn.
G. J. Romanes
WE shall be made truly wise if we be made content; content, too, not only with what we can understand, but content with what we do not understand,—the habit and mind which theologians call, and rightly, faith in God.
STRUGGLING against inevitable results which he cannot control, too often man is heedless of those accessible pleasures, whose amount is by no means inconsiderable when collected together. Stretching out his hand to catch the stars, he forgets the flowers at his feet.