There were no formerly heroic times, and there was no formerly pure generation. There is no one here but us chickens, and so it has always been.

Time is the warp and matter the weft of the woven texture of beauty in space, and death is the hurling shuttle.

The morning woods were utterly new. A strong yellow light pooled beneath the trees; my shadow appeared and vanished on the path, since a third of the trees I walked under were still bare, a third spread a luminous haze wherever they grew, and another third blocked the sun with new, whole leaves. The snakes were out - I saw a bright, smashed one on the path - and the butterflies were vaulting and furling about; the phlox was at its peak, and even the evergreens looked greener, newly created and washed.

We are here on the planet only once, and might as well get a feel for the place.

Every spring he vowed to quit teaching school, and every summer he missed his pupils and searched for them on the streets.

The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.

I think the dying pray at the last not "please," but "thank you," as a guest thanks his host at the door.