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

There are no limits to either time or distance, except as man himself may make them. I have but to touch the wind to know these things.

There is a leisure about walking, no matter what pace you set, that lets down the tension.

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

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

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

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.