Nature Seems To Look After Her Own

The Longer I Live And The More I Read, The More Certain I Become That The Real Poems About Spring Aren't Written On Paper. They Are Written In The Back Pasture And The Near Meadow, And They Are Issued In A New Revised Edition Every April.

The Hush Comes With The Deepening Of Autumn; But It Comes Gradually. Our Ears Are Attuned To It, Day By Quieter Day. But Even Now, If One Awakens In The Deep Darkness Of The Small Hours, One Can Hear It, A Foretaste Of Winter Silence. It’s A Little Painful Now, And A Little Lonely Because It Is So Strange.

There Are No Idealists In The Plant World And No Compassion. The Rose And The Morning Glory Know No Mercy. Bindweed, The Morning Glory, Will Quickly Choke Its Competitors To Death, And The Fencerow Rose Will Just As Quietly Crowd Out Any Other Plant That Tried To Share Its Roothold. Idealism And Mercy Are Human Terms And Human Concepts.

For Anyone Who Lives In The Oak-and-maple Area Of New England, There Is A Perennial Temptation To Plunge Into A Purple Sea Of Adjectives About October.

For The Fall Of The Year Is More Than Three Months Bounded By An Equinox And A Solstice. It Is A Summing Up Without The Finality Of Year's End.