THINGS THOUGHTFUL.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 18548, 23 August 1928, Page 3

THINGS THOUGHTFUL.

LOVE YOUR WORK. Love well thy work, be truthful in the mart, And foes will praise thee if thy friends depart.—Eric Mackay. x :* SING! Give me a man that is not dull, When all the world with rifts is full; But unamaz’d dares clearly- sing, When as the roof’s a-tottering. —Herrick. * « :: IN QUIET SELF-CONTROL. Be not like the stream that brawls Loud with shallow waterfalls, But m quiet self-control Link together soul and soul. —Longfellow. DISAPPOINTING DESIRES. Our desires always disappoint us; for though we meet with something that gives us satisfaction, yet it never thoroughly answers our expectation.— Rochefoucauld. FAINT NOT! Faint not, heart of man! There have been those that from the deepest caves And cells of night, and fastnesses below The stormy- dashing of the ocean's Down, further down than gold lies hid, have nursed A quenchless hope, and watch’d their time, and burst On the bright day, like wakeners from the grave.—Mrs Hemans. MEN ARE FOUR. 1. He who knows not, and knows not he knows not. lie is a fool; shun him. 2. He who knows not, and knows he knows not. lie is simple; teach him. 3. He who knows, and knows not he knows. He is asleep: wake him. 4. He who knows, and knows he knows. He is wise; follow him.—Arabic Proverb. TRUE LOVE. True love’s the gift which God has given To man alone beneath the heaven; It is not fantasy’s hot fire, Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly; It Jiveth not in fierce desire, With dead desire it doth not die; It is the secret sympathy The silver link, the silken tie, Which heart to heart, and mind to mind, In body- and in soul can bind. —Sir Walter Scott. tt TRUTH. Truth is the trial of itself. And needs no other touch; And purer than the purest gold, Refine it ne’er so much. —Ben Johnson. LOVE OF NATURE. The love of nature is ever returned double to us, not only the delighter in our delight, but by linking our sweetest, but of themselves perishable feelings to distinct and vivid images which we ourselves, at times, and which a thousand casual recollections, recall to our memory. She is tfie preserver, the treasurer of our joys. Even in sickness and nervous diseases, she has peopled our imagination with lovely forms which have sometimes overpowered the inward pain and brought with them their old sensations. And even when all men have seemed to desert us and the friend of our heart has passed on, with one glance from his “ cold disliking eye”—yet even then the blue heaven is spread out and bends over us, and the little tree still shelters us under its plumage as a second cope, a domestic firmament, and the low creeping gale will sigh in the heath-plant and soothe us by sound of sympathytill the lulled grief loses itself in fixed gaze on the purple heath-blossom, till the present beauty becomes a vision ©f memory.—S. T. Coleridge.