Unless a man works, he cannot find out what he is able to do.
2102
I cannot abide to see men throw away their tools the minute the clock begins to strike, as if they took no pleasure in their work, and was afraid o' doing a stroke too much. The very grindstone 'll go on turning a bit after you loose it.
—George Eliot.
2103
THE TENT.
When my bier is borne to the grave
And its burden is laid in the ground
Think not that Rumi is there,
Nor cry, like the mourners around,
He is gone,—all is over—farewell!
But go on your ways again,
And forgetting your own petty loss,
Remember his infinite gain.
For, know that this world is a tent,
And life but a dream in the night,
Till death plucks the curtain apart
And awakens the sleeper with light.
—R. H. Stoddard, From the Persian.
