Affliction is more apt to suffocate the imagination than to stimulate it.
If woman is inconstant, good, I am faithful to ebb and flow, I fall in season and now is a time of ripening.
The fire in leaf and grass so green it seems each summer the last summer.
We call it "Nature"; only reluctantly admitting ourselves to be "Nature" too.
Let me walk through the fields of paper touching with my wand dry stems and stunted butterflies.
But we have only begun to love the earth. We have only begun to imagine the fullness of life. How could we tire of hope?-so much is in bud.