I write as the birds sing, because I must, and usually from the same source of inspiration.

Sometimes it seems to me that the more we get hurt in this world the decenter it makes us.

How a big majority of book critics and authors have come to believe and to teach that no book is true to life unless it is true to the worst in life, God knows.

Every intoxicating delight of early spring was in the air. The breeze that fanned her cheek was laden with subtle perfume and the crisp, fresh odor of unfolding leaves.

In the economy of nature nothing is ever lost. I cannot belive that the soul of man shall prove the one exception

Nature can be trusted to work her own miracle in the heart of any man whose daily task keeps him alone among her sights, sounds and silences.

Of two evils, I always choose the lesser.