How Beautiful The Leaves Grow Old. How

Mounting Toward The Upland Again, I Pause Reverently, As The Hush And Stillness Of Twilight Come Upon The Woods. It Is The Sweetest, Ripest Hour Of The Day. And As The Hermit's Evening Hymn Goes Up From The Deep Solitude Below Me, I Experience That Serene Exaltation Of Sentiment Of Which Music, Literature, And Religion Are But The Faint Types And Symbols.

Science Is A Capital Or Fund Perpetually Reinvested; It Accumulates, Rolls Up, Is Carried Forward By Every New Man. Every Man Of Science Has All The Science Before Him To Go Upon, To Set Himself Up In Business With. What An Enormous Sum Darwin Availed Himself Of And Reinvested! Not So In Literature; To Every Poet, To Every Artist, It Is Still The First Day Of Creation, So Far As The Essentials Of His Task Are Concerned. Literature Is Not So Much A Fund To Be Reinvested As It Is A Crop To Be Ever New-grown.

The Rocks Are Not So Close Akin To Us As The Soil; They Are One More Remove From Us; But They Lie Back Of All, And Are The Final Source Of All. ... Time, Geologic Time, Looks Out At Us From The Rocks As From No Other Objects In The Landscape.

The Countries Outside The Non-proliferation Treaty Also Are Bound By That Obligation [ Article Six Of The Treaty] According To, At Least It's A Strong Implication Of, A 1996 Opinion Of The International Court Of Justice.

We Can Outrun The Wind And The Storm, But We Cannot Outrun The Demon Of Hurry.