For man, autumn is a time of harvest, of gathering together. For nature, it is a time of sowing, of scattering abroad.

In nature, there is less death and destruction than death and transmutation.

Time and space - time to be alone, space to move about - these may well become the great scarcities of tomorrow.

It is easier to accept the message of the stars than the message of the salt desert. The stars speak of man's insignificance in the long eternity of time; the desert speaks of his insignificance right now.

I see, when I bend close, how each leaflet of a climbing rose is bordered with frost, the autumn counterpart of the dewdrops of summer dawns. The feathery leaves of yarrow are thick with silver rime and dry thistle heads rise like goblets plated with silver catching the sun.

For the mind disturbed, the still beauty of dawn is nature's finest balm.

You can prove almost anything with the evidence of a small enough segment of time. How often, in any search for truth, the answer of the minute is positive, the answer of the hour qualified, the answers of the year contradictory!