Time after time ... today's crisis shrinks to next week's footnote to a newly headline disaster.

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.

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

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.

To know after absence the familiar street and road and village and house is to know again the satisfaction of home.

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