April is a promise that May is bound to keep.

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

To see a hillside white with dogwood bloom is to know a particular ecstasy of beauty, but to walk the gray Winter woods and find the buds which will resurrect that beauty in another May is to partake of continuity.

You fight dandelions all weekend, and late Monday afternoon there they are, pert as all get out, in full and gorgeous bloom, pretty as can be, thriving as only dandelions can in the face of adversity.

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

April is a promise that May is bound to keep.

Man is not an aquatic animal, but from the time we stand in youthful wonder beside a Spring brook till we sit in old age and watch the endless roll of the sea, we feel a strong kinship with the waters of this world.