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

once a man had thrust his hands into the soil and knew the grit of it between his teeth, he felt something rise within him that was not of his day or generation, but had persisted through birth and death from a time beyond recall.

Time, designing slowly, swiftly; Time, destroying slowly, swiftly; Time holding, possessing the earth in its tender indifference.

But one had to go back to the beginning of things, always. Trace the thread of life - find the knot - untangle it.

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'.

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