God, what pathetic creatures had inherited the earth, to walk a little while with their eyes upon the stars and turn their gaze too soon upon the ground that held their feet!

There was nothing so real on the prairie as winter, nothing so memorable.

By mid-morning a rain as fine as silk spills was weaving over the lake.

Here and there on the branch of an oak a congress of leaves still clung, rigid as flakes of bronze.

The snow again. White, white net of beauty, net of dream, trapping the earth, trapping the helpless heart of life.

A false vision was better than none.

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