No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn.
Year's end is neither an end nor a beginning but a going on, with all the wisdom that experience can instill in us.
The longer I live and the more I read, the more certain I become that the real poems about spring aren't written on paper. They are written in the back pasture and the near meadow, and they are issued in a new revised edition every April.
The earth's distances invite the eye. And as the eye reaches, so must the mind stretch to meet these new horizons. I challenge anyone to stand with autumn on a hilltop and fail to see a new expanse not only around him, but in him, too.
If you would know strength and patience, welcome the company of trees.
Man is not an aquatic animal, but from the time we stand in youthful wonder beside a Spring brook till we sit in old age and watch the endless roll of the sea, we feel a strong kinship with the waters of this world.
For the Fall of the year is more than three months bounded by an equinox and a solstice. It is a summing up without the finality of year's end.
Consider the wheelbarrow. It may lack the grace of an airplane, the speed of an automobile, the initial capacity of a freight car, but its humble wheel marked out the path of what civilization we still have.
To see a hillside white with dogwood bloom is to know a particular ecstasy of beauty, but to walk the gray Winter woods and find the buds which will resurrect that beauty in another May is to partake of continuity.
April is a promise that May is bound to keep.
All our yesterdays are summarized in our now, and all the tomorrows are ours to shape.
There is a leisure about walking, no matter what pace you set, that lets down the tension.
The earth turns, and the seasons, and for all his pride and power man cannot temper the winds or change their course. They are the unseen tides that shape our days and our years.
Time has its own dimensions, and neither the sun nor the clock can encompass them all.
Nothing in nature is as simple as it sometimes seems when reduced to words.
Time after time ... today's crisis shrinks to next week's footnote to a newly headline disaster.
October is the fallen leaf, but it is also a wider horizon more clearly seen. It is the distant hills once more in sight, and the enduring constellations above them once again.
Autumn is the eternal corrective. It is ripeness and color and a time of maturity; but it is also breadth, and depth, and distance. What man can stand with autumn on a hilltop and fail to see the span of his world and the meaning of the rolling hills that reach to the far horizon?
Of all the seasons, autumn offers the most to man and requires the least of him.
There are two seasonal diversions that can ease the bite of any winter. One is the January thaw. The other is the seed catalogues.
All walking is discovery. On foot we take the time to see things whole.
A woodland in full color is awesome as a forest fire, in magnitude at least, but a single tree is like a dancing tongue of flame to warm the heart.
Summer ends, and Autumn comes, and he who would have it otherwise would have high tide always and a full moon every night.
Man is wise and constantly in quest of more wisdom; but the ultimate wisdom, which deals with beginnings, remains locked in a seed.
If you ever wondered why fishing is probably the most popular sport in this country, watch that boy beside on the water and you will learn. If you are really perceptive you will. For he already knows that fishing is only one part fish.
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