There was nothing so real on the prairie as winter, nothing so memorable.
Here and there on the branch of an oak a congress of leaves still clung, rigid as flakes of bronze.
There's precious little comes of telling people what they don't want to hear.
I don't see as it matters much how well you mean if it's harm you're doin'.
The past ... is a dim avenue down which we may walk and find the diverging paths of terror and beauty and passion.
Listen - man is a child of Nature. When he turns against his mother - he's done! He may not find out about it right away, but he will.