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

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

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

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.

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

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.