Why thus longing, thus forever sighing,
For the far-off, unattained and dim,
While the beautiful, all around thee lying
Offers up its low, perpetual hymn?
HARRIET WINSLOW.
Work for the good that is nighest;
Dream not of greatness afar:
That glory is ever the highest
Which shines upon men as they are.
W. MORLEY PUNSHON.
CHAPTER XV.
THE MIGHT OF LITTLE THINGS.
Little strokes fell great oaks.—FRANKLIN.
Think naught a trifle, though it small appear;
Small sands the mountain, moments make the year,
And trifles, life.
YOUNG.
"Scorn not the slightest word or deed,
Nor deem it void of power;
There's fruit in each wind-wafted seed,
That waits its natal hour."
It is but the littleness of man that seeth no greatness in trifles.—WENDELL PHILLIPS.
He that despiseth small things shall fall by little and little.—ECCLESIASTICUS.