“Sounds of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain awaken'd flowers,All that ever wasJoyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass”

“The first day of spring, the vernal equinox—the season of renewal when the earth sheds its winter cloak, flowers bloom, and the heart feels as though everything is once again imaginable. The smell of fresh-cut grass, shagging fly balls, and scraping mud from baseball cleats. A brief contemplation and tear for those gone from the field, their easy laugh and nimble sprint no longer gracing the game.”

“No one, not even Shakespeare, surpasses Milton in his command of the sound, the music, the weight and taste and texture of English words.”

“Bloody thou art, bloody will be thy end;Shame serves thy life and doth thy death attend.”

“And what does the rain say at night in a small town, what does the rain have to say? Who walks beneath dripping melancholy branches listening to the rain? Who is there in the rain’s million-needled blurring splash, listening to the grave music of the rain at night, September rain, September rain, so dark and soft? Who is there listening to steady level roaring rain all around, brooding and listening and waiting, in the rain-washed, rain-twinkled dark of night?”

“Thou may be sure that he who will tell thee of thy faults is thy friend, for he ventures thy dislike and doth hazard thy hatred.”