A woodland in full color is awesome as a forest fire, in magnitude at least, but a single tree is like a dancing tongue of flame to warm the heart.

Knowing trees, I understand the meaning of patience. Knowing grass, I can appreciate persistence.

He who travels west travels not only with the sun but with history.

Strip the hills, drain the boglands, and you create flood conditions inevitably. Yet that is what we have been doing for years.

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

All man has to do is cooperate with the big forces, the sun, the rain, the growing urge. Seeds sprout, stems grow, leaves spread in the sunlight. Man plants, weeds, cultivates and harvests. It sounds simple, and it is simple, with the simplicity of great truths.

Summer ends, and Autumn comes, and he who would have it otherwise would have high tide always and a full moon every night.