Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all.

Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all.

And you would accept the seasons of your heart just as you have always accepted that seasons pass over your read more

And you would accept the seasons of your heart just as you have always accepted that seasons pass over your fields and you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.

Spring is God's way of saying, 'One more time!'

Spring is God's way of saying, 'One more time!'

In a way winter is the real spring, the time when the inner things happen, the resurge of nature.

In a way winter is the real spring, the time when the inner things happen, the resurge of nature.

If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant: if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, read more

If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant: if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome.

Indoors or out, no one relaxes in March, that month of wind and taxes, the wind will presently disappear, the read more

Indoors or out, no one relaxes in March, that month of wind and taxes, the wind will presently disappear, the taxes last us all the year.

Change is a measure of time and, in the autumn, time seems speeded up. What was is not and never read more

Change is a measure of time and, in the autumn, time seems speeded up. What was is not and never again will be; what is is change.

A woodland in full color is awesome as a forest fire; but a single tree is like a dancing tongue read more

A woodland in full color is awesome as a forest fire; but a single tree is like a dancing tongue of flame to warm the heart.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, read more

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sunthaw; whether the eve-drops fall,
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Of if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet moon.