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.

As I stood and watched the mists slowly rising this morning I wondered what view was more beautiful than this.

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.

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.

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.

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