There are certain remarkable attributes that people possess. If anything
is immortal, it is hope, and people possess it in abundance. Sometimes
hope seems to die down to the root, but it ever flourishes anew at the
least opportunity.
It is a wondrous thing, this hope. I am not sure how it is formed, and
more often than not there does not appear much reason for it, but by
some process natural or supernatural the supply is unquenchable. It
takes us through dark and bitter years and makes them livable, and not
only livable, but enjoyable, because it gives us a light inside.
And then there is love. Death, pain, and the hardships of life do not
distract from love. Here again seems to be an undying substance, a
formless, shapeless nonentity, intangible outside the individual. Yet
within a person it looms gigantic, it moves mountains, and is the
beginning and end of our being.
Love gives the world its attraction. It is love alone that pleases and
delights, and that prevents the world from becoming a place of
desolation. Like the touch of a magician's wand love is ever creating
new visions and dreams, ever providing freshets of new ideas and
inspirations.
Somehow it seems an inference fraught with error to assume love is a
product of mere flesh and blood. A whisper from deep within tells us
love comes upon gossamer wings from God.
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