The Exchange Of Sympathy For Gratitude Is

"there Is No God," The Foolish Saith, But None, "there Is No Sorrow." And Nature Oft The Cry Of Faith In Bitter Need Will Borrow: Eyes Which The Preacher Could Not School, By Wayside Graves Are Raised; And Lips Say, "god Be Pitiful," Who Ne'er Said, "god Be Praised."

Why, What Is To Live? Not To Eat And Drink And Breathe,—but To Feel The Life In You Down All The Fibres Of Being, Passionately And Joyfully.

Or From Browning Some "pomegranate," Which If Cut Deep Down The Middle Shows A Heart Within Blood-tinctured, Of A Veined Humanity.

When The Dust Of Death Has Choked A Great Man's Voice, The Common Words He Said Turn Oracles, The Common Thoughts He Yoked Like Horses Draw Like Griffins.

The Exchange Of Sympathy For Gratitude Is The Most Princely Thing!