The earth turns, and the seasons, and for all his pride and power man cannot temper the winds or change their course. They are the unseen tides that shape our days and our years.

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

If you would know strength and patience, welcome the company of trees.

No Winter lasts forever, no Spring skips its turn. April is a promise that May is bound to keep, and we know it.

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.

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

March is a tomboy with tousled hair, a mischievous smile, mud on her shoes and a laugh in her voice.