The swift years slip and slide adown the steep; The slow years pass; neither will come again.

Go to the winter woods: listen there, look, watch, and "the dead months" will give you a subtler secret than any you have yet found in the forest.

A handful of pine-seed will cover mountains with the green majesty of forests. I too will set my face to the wind and throw my handful of seed on high.

The gray silence, the gray waves, the gray wastes of the sea.

The swift years slip and slide adown the steep; The slow years pass; neither will come again.

In the beginning, said a Persian poet Allah took a rose, a lily, a dove, a serpent, a little honey, a Dead Sea apple, and a handful of clay. When he looked at the amalgram it was a woman.

My heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on a lonely hill.