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Long cold nights mark November's return, grey rains fall, wind walks in the bronze oak leaves.

Gladys Taber

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Gladys Taber
Age: 80 †
Born: 1899
Born: April 12
Died: 1980
Died: March 11
Author
Writer
Colorado Springs
Colorado
Gladys Bagg Taber
Long
Rain
Mark
Rains
Return
Bronze
Wind
Oaks
Cold
November
Walks
Nights
Fall
Grey
Night
Leaves

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November wind has a sound different from any other. It is easy to imagine the cave of the winds in some mythical Northland where the winds are born and the gods send them out to conquer the quiet air.
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There is a kind of immortality in every garden.
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Dog lovers are a good breed themselves.
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Almost all words do have colour and nothing is more pleasant than to utter a pink word and see someone's eyes light up and know it is a pink word for him or her too.
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History records the large events or the general condition of society, but only an individual can put down the way of life in a small town.
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Life is a process of discovery, of new perceptions.
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Happiness of heart can never be measured out and bundled up, it's intangible. We keep running after it, grasping for it, and the heat of our running so seldom brings it closer. But now and then there may be a moment. We look at something and know it is good and beautiful. Those moments are happiness.
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Happiness is a thing of now.
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Christmas is a bridge. We need bridges as the river of time flows past. Today's Christmas should mean creating happy hours for tomorrow and reliving those of yesterday.
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Nothing makes a house cozier than cats.
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the tentacles of today reach out like an octopus to swallow yesterday.
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My general attitude toward life when I first get up is of deep suspicion, verging on hatred. ... I am simply basted together until after breakfast.
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Pride may go before a fall, but jealousy goes before destruction.
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Old houses, I thought, do not belong to people ever, not really, people belong to them.
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After all, catching something is purely a by-product of our fishing. It is the act of fishing that wipes away all grief, lightens all worry, dissolves fear and anxiety.
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The curious thing about fishing is you never want to go home. If you catch something, you can't stop. If you don't catch anything, you hate to leave in case something might bite.
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Perhaps, after all, our best thoughts come when we are alone. It is good to listen, not to voices but to the wind blowing, to the brook running cool over polished stones, to bees drowsy with the weight of pollen. If we attend to the music of the earth, we reach serenity. And then, in some unexplained way, we share it with others.
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If I had Aladdin's lamp and the usual three wishes, the first would always be, 'Give me the first day of June.
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June in New England is like a lover's dream made tangible.
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