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

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.

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.

The desire of love, Joy:The desire of life, Peace:The desire of the soul, Heaven:The desire of God ... a flame-white secret forever.

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

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.