Lord make me satisfied with small things. Make me content to live on the outside of life. God make me love the rind!

The woods seemed all answer and healing and more than enough to live for.

... love and fear increase together with a precision almost mathematical: the greater the love is then the greater the fear is.

Lord make me satisfied with small things. Make me content to live on the outside of life. God make me love the rind!

There is 'a time to be born' - and born again, free of accumulated, encrusted sores of fears and prejudices, old hates, of cancerous wounds, old prides. And there is a time to die - a time for the blue, unburied child of our young years to be decently interred - and to get on with the living.

The dead elm leaves hung like folded bats.

The things we felt most are hardest to put into words. Hate is always easier to speak of than love. How shall I make love go through the sieve of words and come out something besides a pulp?