Green thoughts emerge from some deep source of stillness which the very fact of winter has released. I frequently tramped eight or ten miles through the deepest snow to keep an appointment with a beech-tree, or a yellow birch, or an old acquaintance among the pines. Many of the Documents Include Recommended Readings and Internet Links. We go, in winter's biting wind, On many a short-lived winter day, With aching back but willing mind To dig and double dig the clay. Some lives, like evening primroses, blossom most beautifully in the evening of life.
Memory is the power to gather roses in winter.
As I write, snow is falling outside my Maine window, and indoors all around me half a hundred garden catalogues are in bloom. Cold hands warm heart. As pure as snow. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. Now is the winter of our discontent.