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.

How strangely inaccurate it is to measure length of living by length of life! The space between your birth and death is often far from a true measure of your days of living.

A man who never sees a bluebird only half lives.

It is morally as bad not to care whether anything is true or not.

To those whom the tree, the birds, the wildflowers represent only "locked-up dollars" have never known or really seen these things.

All things seem possible in May.

Change is a measure of time and, in the autumn, time seems speeded up. What was is not and never again will be; what is is change.