At sunset the whole sky was a brilliant salmon, which case a warm glow over the earth, and brought us running outdoors.
Noon copies the present, morning clings to the waning season, evening looks forward to the coming one.
A bright sunshiny day, with enough chill in the air to suggest maple sap running.
I felt today rather than saw the immense August sunlight coming form the southeast, while I was in the shade of something – a huge tree or perhaps a forest - it represents the immensity of Southeast.
These mornings seem to belong to no particular season—neither summer winter spring nor autumn.
The hot white drought wind comes out of the brassy southwest sky, scorching the earth with its breath, like a blast of air from a coke-oven.
Fields brisk with life from the recent rains. The millions of Queen Anne’s Lace seemed to us incredible of especial beauty were second crops of pink clover (which is not really pink but R.V. lavendar)
Two monarch butterflies apparently have made our backyard their home. What beautiful (miraculous really) creatures they are!
The immortality of the soul exists in the deeds that live after the man has turned to dust.
As I sit in arbor writing an amateur violinist commences to play. At first I hear only its squeaking wiry sound and it jars. Then he commences to play “Over the waves Waltz”