There's no beginning to the farmer's year, / Only recurrent patterns on a scroll / Unwinding...

It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? For the moment passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone; life itself is gone. That is where the writer scores over his fellows: he catches the changes of his mind on the hop.

Things were not tragic for us then, because although we cared passionately we didn't care deeply.

I loved you when love was Spring, and May, Loved you when summer deepened into June, and now when autumn yellows all the leaves.

It is no good my telling you. One never believes other people's experiencem and one is only very gradually convinced by one's own.

I do not like January very much. It is too stationary. Not enough happens. I like the evidences of life, and in January there are too few of them.

Growth is exciting; growth is dynamic and alarming.