Quote

Two sounds of autumn are unmistakable...the hurrying rustle of crisp leaves blown along the street...by a gusty wind, and the gabble of a flock of migrating geese.

Hal Borland

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Hal Borland
Age: 77 †
Born: 1900
Born: May 14
Died: 1978
Died: February 22
Author
Writer
Along
Geese
Gusty
Wind
Flocks
Migrating
Sound
Blown
Rustle
Two
Autumn
Unmistakable
Leaves
Crisp
Sounds
Crisps
Street
Hurrying
Streets
Flock

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All our yesterdays are summarized in our now, and all the tomorrows are ours to shape.
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Year's end is neither an end nor a beginning but a going on, with all the wisdom that experience can instill in us.
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There are no limits to either time or distance, except as man himself may make them. I have but to touch the wind to know these things.
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No winter lasts forever no spring skips its turn.
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All walking is discovery. On foot we take the time to see things whole.
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No Winter lasts forever, no Spring skips its turn. April is a promise that May is bound to keep, and we know it.
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Knowing trees, I understand the meaning of patience. Knowing grass, I can appreciate persistence.
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Man is not an aquatic animal, but from the time we stand in youthful wonder beside a Spring brook till we sit in old age and watch the endless roll of the sea, we feel a strong kinship with the waters of this world.
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If you ever wondered why fishing is probably the most popular sport in this country, watch that boy beside on the water and you will learn. If you are really perceptive you will. For he already knows that fishing is only one part fish.
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October is the fallen leaf, but it is also a wider horizon more clearly seen. It is the distant hills once more in sight, and the enduring constellations above them once again.
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March is a tomboy with tousled hair, a mischievous smile, mud on her shoes and a laugh in her voice.
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Consider the wheelbarrow. It may lack the grace of an airplane, the speed of an automobile, the initial capacity of a freight car, but its humble wheel marked out the path of what civilization we still have.
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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.
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There are some things, but not too many, toward which the countryman knows he must be properly respectful if he would avoid pain, sickness and injury. Nature is neither punitive nor solicitous, but she has thorns and fangs as wells as bowers and grassy banks.
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Of all the seasons, autumn offers the most to man and requires the least of him.
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The earth's distances invite the eye. And as the eye reaches, so must the mind stretch to meet these new horizons. I challenge anyone to stand with autumn on a hilltop and fail to see a new expanse not only around him, but in him, too.
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A frontier is never a place it is a time and a way of life.
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For all his learning or sophistication, man still instinctively reaches towards that force beyond. Only arrogance can deny its existence, and the denial falters in the face of evidence on every hand. In every tuft of grass, in every bird, in every opening bud, there it is.
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Catch a vista of maples in that long light and you see Autumn glowing through the leaves.... The promise of gold and crimson is there among the branches, though as yet it is achieved on only a stray branch, an impatient limb or an occasional small tree which has not yet learned to time its changes.
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He who travels west travels not only with the sun but with history.
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