Quote

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.

Hal Borland

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Hal Borland
Age: 77 †
Born: 1900
Born: May 14
Died: 1978
Died: February 22
Author
Writer
Become
Poems
Revised
Certain
Near
Pasture
Back
Spring
Edition
Live
Aren
Meadow
Real
Paper
Issued
Every
Longer
Pastures
Written
Meadows
Read
April

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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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Green, the color of growth, or surgent life, enwraps the land. New green, still as individual as the plants themselves. Cool green, which will merge as the weeks pass, the Summer comes, into a canopy of shade of busy chlorophyll.
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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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Time has its own dimensions, and neither the sun nor the clock can encompass them all.
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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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You can't be suspicious of a tree, or accuse a bird or a squirrel of subversion or challenge the ideology of a violet.
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Strip the hills, drain the boglands, and you create flood conditions inevitably. Yet that is what we have been doing for years.
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No winter lasts forever no spring skips its turn.
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All our yesterdays are summarized in our now, and all the tomorrows are ours to shape.
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All walking is discovery. On foot we take the time to see things whole.
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A frontier is never a place it is a time and a way of life.
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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.
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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 most unhappy thing about conservation is that it is never permanent. Save a priceless woodland or an irreplaceable mountain today, and tomorrow it is threatened from another quarter.
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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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Summer ends, and Autumn comes, and he who would have it otherwise would have high tide always and a full moon every night.
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Knowing trees, I understand the meaning of patience. Knowing grass, I can appreciate persistence.
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He who travels west travels not only with the sun but with history.
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Weekend planning is a prime time to apply the Deathbed Priority Test: On your deathbed, will you wish you'd spent more prime weekend hours grocery shopping or walking in the woods with your kids?
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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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