Year's end is neither an end nor a beginning but a going on, with all the wisdom that experience can instill in us.
No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn.
Knowing trees, I understand the meaning of patience. Knowing grass, I can appreciate persistence.
All our yesterdays are summarized in our now, and all the tomorrows are ours to shape.
If you would know strength and patience, welcome the company of trees.
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?
April is a promise that May is bound to keep.
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.
All walking is discovery. On foot we take the time to see things whole.
Each new season grows from the leftovers from the past. That is the essence of change, and change is the basic law.
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 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.
You can't be suspicious of a tree, or accuse a bird or a squirrel of subversion or challenge the ideology of a violet.
March is a tomboy with tousled hair, a mischievous smile, mud on her shoes and a laugh in her voice.
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.
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.
To know after absence the familiar street and road and village and house is to know again the satisfaction of home.
Man is wise and constantly in quest of more wisdom; but the ultimate wisdom, which deals with beginnings, remains locked in a seed.
Summer is a promissory note signed in June, its long days spent and gone before you know it, and due to be repaid next January.
Two sounds of autumn are unmistakable...the hurrying rustle of crisp leaves blown along the street...by a gusty wind, and the gabble of a flock of migrating geese.
Summer ends, and Autumn comes, and he who would have it otherwise would have high tide always and a full moon every night.
Time after time ... today's crisis shrinks to next week's footnote to a newly headline disaster.
There is a leisure about walking, no matter what pace you set, that lets down the tension.
Green, the color of growth, or surgent life, enwraps the land. New green, still as individual as the plants themselves. Cool green, which will merge as the weeks pass, the Summer comes, into a canopy of shade of busy chlorophyll.
All man has to do is cooperate with the big forces, the sun, the rain, the growing urge. Seeds sprout, stems grow, leaves spread in the sunlight. Man plants, weeds, cultivates and harvests. It sounds simple, and it is simple, with the simplicity of great truths.
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