A sickness ... defines margins, crystallizes the shape of things.

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.

I don't see as it matters much how well you mean if it's harm you're doin'.

The lush green of the fields became a rich gold that swayed sturdily under the wind and fell at last before the hands of the reapers.

There's precious little comes of telling people what they don't want to hear.

You have stirred the soil with your plow, my friend. It will never be the same again.