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

I don't see as it matters much how well you mean if it's harm you're doin'.

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

Ah, life, life, how madly, how cruelly it raced along your pulses!

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.

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

A false vision was better than none.