One May Return To The Place Of

It Is The Life Of The Crystal, The Architect Of The Flake, The Fire Of The Frost, The Soul Of The Sunbeam. This Crisp Winter Air Is Full Of It.

I Still Find Each Day Too Short For All The Thoughts I Want To Think, All The Walks I Want To Take, All The Books I Want To Read, And All The Friends I Want To See.

He Who Marvels At The Beauty Of The World In Summer Will Find Equal Cause For Wonder And Admiration In Winter.

How Many Thorns Of Human Nature - Hard, Sharp, Lifeless Protuberances That Tear And Wound Us, Narrow Prejudices, Bristling Conceits That Repel And Disgust Us - Are Arrested Developments, Calcified Tendencies, Buds Of Promise That Should Have Lifted A Branch Up Into The Sunny Day With Fruit; And Flowers To Delight The Heart Of Men, But Now All Grown Hard, Petrified, For Want Of Culture And A Congenial Soil And Climate.

Close Scrutiny Of An Object In Nature Will Nearly Always Yield Some Significant Fact.