Of all the seasons, autumn offers the most to man and requires the least of him.

The longer I live and the more I read, the more certain I become that the real poems about spring aren't written on paper. They are written in the back pasture and the near meadow, and they are issued in a new revised edition every April.

The ultimate wisdom which deals with beginnings, remains locked in a seed. There it lies, the simplest fact of the universe and at the same time the one which calls faith rather than reason.

October is the fallen leaf, but it is also a wider horizon more clearly seen.

All our yesterdays are summarized in our now, and all the tomorrows are ours to shape.

If the voice of the brook was not the first song of celebration, it must have been at least an obbligato for that event.

Summer is a promissory note signed in June, its long days spent and gone before you know it, and due to be repaid next January.