Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen.

Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen.

I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do. I feel as if this tree knows everything I ever think of when I sit here. When I come back to it, I never have to remind it of anything; I begin just where I left off.

Oh, this is the joy of the rose;That it blows,And goes.

Oh, the Germans classify, but the French arrange!.

No one person knows much more about writing than another. I expect that when people think they know anything about it, then their case is hopeless.