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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.