is made.

In this steel age it may seem folly and waste to stop and think of
sacrifice and courage and love, to admire and answer to the thrill of
human passions; but alas for him who never sees the light of heaven in
another's tear, nor hears the brush of angels' wings when men and women
fly to their fellow's aid.

If you haven't time in your busy life to turn aside to drink of the
brook of human affection, to look deep into the eyes of friendship, to
sympathize, to comfort, to taste this strange sweet and bitter cup of
our common fellowship, then is your heart going dry and thirsty and
life becoming a whitened road that knows no wells or springs.

But something there is in man that calls for drafts at yet deeper
streams than these. Foolish and unlearned he may be, ignorant of the
wise conclusions of philosophers who have looked into these things with
their lanterns, but through the ages he has been drinking eagerly at
the waters of eternity. In every man there is a thirst after the deep,
immeasurable things divine; the deeper the nature of the man the
greater his necessity for drinking often here.

The consciousness of the great life that embraces all life, the sense
of its nearness to us all, has been a perennial refreshing to all great
hearts. In some way to bring the life into touch with the infinite is
to take down its limitations, break its barriers, and give it a sense
of infinitude, to lift up the head in vision of the divinity of our
lives and of every life. We who walk in the dust often need to be
filled with the divine lest we become ourselves but dust.

This world of things is hungry for the life that is more than things,
the life of the spirit; that is why so many love to sing of heaven and
dream of a fair world peopled by strange and glorious celestial ones.
Heaven is nearer than we think; like the brook by the way, the life of
the spirit flows beside this life; happy they who drink of its waters,
who already enter into eternity, who find strength for this life's way
and work by the contact with the life that is life indeed.

Is it any wonder that life is a wearisome thing, a dead drag, when you
are starving its very sources? You neglect the soul at the peril of
all. So anxious are you to run this race that you have no time to
allow him who rides in the chariot to drink of the water of life. This
is not utilitarianism; this is suicide from the centre out.

The most practical common sense dem