Consider The Wheelbarrow. It May

Time After Time ... Today's Crisis Shrinks To Next Week's Footnote To A Newly Headline Disaster.

[the Christmas Story] Is As Simple As Was The Man Himself And His Teaching. Sa Simple As The Sermon On The Mount Which Still Remains As The Ultimate Basis ... Of The Belief Of Free Men Of Good Will Everywhere.

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.

Autumn Is The Eternal Corrective. It Is Ripeness And Color And A Time Of Maturity; But It Is Also Breadth, And Depth, And Distance. What Man Can Stand With Autumn On A Hilltop And Fail To See The Span Of His World And The Meaning Of The Rolling Hills That Reach To The Far Horizon?

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.