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.
By mid-morning a rain as fine as silk spills was weaving over the lake.
A sickness ... defines margins, crystallizes the shape of things.
Ah, life, life, how madly, how cruelly it raced along your pulses!
The snow again. White, white net of beauty, net of dream, trapping the earth, trapping the helpless heart of life.
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.