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

A woodland in full color is awesome as a forest fire, in magnitude at least, but a single tree is like a dancing tongue of flame to warm the heart.

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.

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

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

October is the fallen leaf, but it is also a wider horizon more clearly seen.

No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn.