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

A false vision was better than none.

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

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

Religion is passionate, reckless, destructive, idol-smashing. It's a martyr burning at the stake. It's a crown of thorns and a cross.

The past ... is a dim avenue down which we may walk and find the diverging paths of terror and beauty and passion.