Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand That soils my land; And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, Twice ten for one; Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Her egg each day; Besides my healthful ewes to bear Me twins each year; The while the conduits of my kine Run cream, for wine. All these, and better, Thou dost send Me, to this end, That I should render, for my part, A thankful heart...
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It is in men as in soils where sometimes there is a vein of gold which the owner knows not of, and in your nature, there lies hidden rich mines of thought and purpose awaiting your development
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It is surely a matter of common observation that a man who knows no one thing intimately has no views worth hearing on things in general. The farmer philosophizes in terms of crops, soils, markets, and implements, the mechanic generalizes his experiences of wood and iron, the seaman reaches similar conclusions by his own special road; and if the scholar keeps pace with these it must be by an equally virile productivity.
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We are the living links in a life force that moves and plays around and through us, binding the deepest soils with the farthest stars.
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It is in men as in soils where sometimes there is a vein of gold which the owner knows not of.
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As soils are depleted, human health, vitality and intelligence go with them.
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A nation that destroys its soils destroys itself. Forests are the lungs of our land, purifying the air and giving fresh strength to our people.
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