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

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

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

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

There is too much doing - too little being! When we begin to get strenuous, life begins to grow intolerable.

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

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