when we are tired.  We need some teacher like Whitman to open our eyes to the beauty not only of flowers but of leaves of grass, to the picturesqueness and significance of so dull a thing as a ferryboat; or like Wordsworth, with his picturing of homely country scenes and events, with his emotion at the sight of the sleeping city-“a sight so touching in its majesty.”  This sense of the meaning of common things floods most of us at one time or another, and we see what in our blindness we have been overlooking.  Go without your comfortable bed for a while, your well-cooked food, your home, friends, neighbors, and you will discover how rich you have been.  Your mother’s face hinted by some stranger in a foreign land will some day overcome you with the realization of the comfort of her love; and unless you are a crabbed egotist the life of your fellows can furnish you with endless pleasures.  It is not necessary to own things to enjoy them; our interests and enjoyments may well overlap and include those of our friends and neighbors, and even those of strangers.  The smile of a happy child, a friend’s good fortune a sunrise or moonlit cloud-strewn sky, should bring a pure gladness to any one who has eyes to see and heart to feel.  We must “Learn to love the morn, Love the lovely working light, Love the miracle of sight, Love the thousand things to do.” [Footnote:  These lines are Richard Le Gallienne’s.  Cf. also Matthew Arnold’s lines:  “Is it so small a thing To have enjoyed the sun, To have lived light in the spring, To have loved, to have thought, to have done, To have advanced true friends and beat down baffling foes?  The sports of the country people, A flute note from the woods, Sunset over the sea; Seed-time and harvest, The reapers in the corn, The vinedresser in his vineyard, The village girl at her wheel. . .”] The true lover of beauty will not need to seek forever-new scenes and objects to admire.  He will find that which can feed his heart in the clouds of morning, the blue of noon, or the stars of night.  One graceful vase with a flower-stalk bending over to display its drooping blossoms, will fill him with a quiet happiness; the merry laughter of a child, the tender smile of a lover, the rugged features of a weather beaten laborer, will stir his soul to response; a few lines of poetry remembered in the midst of work, a simple song sung in the twilight, a print of some old master hanging by his bedside, a bird-call heard at sunset or the scent of evening air after rain, may so speak to his spirit that he will say, “It is enough!” It is not the number of beautiful things that we have that matters, but the degree in which we are open to their influence, the atmosphere into which we let them lead us.  Our hearts must be free from self-seeking, from regret, from anger, from restlessness.  The vision comes not always to the connoisseur, comes to him whose life is simple, earnest, open-eyed and openhearted.  In the pauses of his faithful work he will refresh his soul with some bit of beauty that tells of attainment, of peace, of perfection.  That is a proof to him of the beauty in the midst of which he lives, inexhaustible, hardly discerned; it carries him beyond itself into the ideal world of which it is a sample and illustration; unconsciously during the duties of the day he lives in the light of that vision, and everything is sweetened and blessed thereby.