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.
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.
All walking is discovery. On foot we take the time to see things whole.
Knowing trees, I understand the meaning of patience. Knowing grass, I can appreciate persistence.
April is a promise that May is bound to keep.
Each new season grows from the leftovers from the past. That is the essence of change, and change is the basic law.
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?
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.
March is a tomboy with tousled hair, a mischievous smile, mud on her shoes and a laugh in her voice.
You can't be suspicious of a tree, or accuse a bird or a squirrel of subversion or challenge the ideology of a violet.
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.
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.
Time has its own dimensions, and neither the sun nor the clock can encompass them all.
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.
Man is wise and constantly in quest of more wisdom; but the ultimate wisdom, which deals with beginnings, remains locked in a seed.
You fight dandelions all weekend, and late Monday afternoon there they are, pert as all get out, in full and gorgeous bloom, pretty as can be, thriving as only dandelions can in the face of adversity.
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.
There is a leisure about walking, no matter what pace you set, that lets down the tension.
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.
The ultimate wisdom which deals with beginnings, remains locked in a seed. There it lies, the simplest fact of the universe and at the same time the one which calls faith rather than reason.
To know after absence the familiar street and road and village and house is to know again the satisfaction of home.
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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