The time of the falling leaves has come again. Once more in our morning walk we tread upon carpets of gold and crimson, of brown and bronze, woven by the winds or the rains out of these delicate textures while we slept.
John Burroughs, “The Falling Leaves,” Under the Maples (via lajoiedespetiteschoses)
We can love completely what we cannot completely understand.
Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It and Other Stories (via wordsnquotes)