The root of joy, as of duty, is to put all one's powers towards some great end.
Our dead brothers and sisters still live for us and bid us think of life, not death-of life to which in their youth they lent the passion and glory of Spring. As I listen, the great chorus of life and joy begins again, and amid the awful orchestra of seen and unseen powers and destinies of good and evil, our trumpets sound once more a note of daring, hope, and will.
The joy of life is to put out one's power in some natural and useful or harmless way. There is no other. And the real misery is not to do this.
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