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Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends, but is played out over and over again in the quietest chambers, that the mind can never break off from the journey.

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The world is a great book; he who never stirs from home reads only a page.

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I think that parents only get so offended by television because they rely on it as a babysitter and the sole educator of their kids.

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And for the season it was winter, and they that know the winters of that country know them to be sharp and violent, and subject to cruel and fierce storms.

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The tendinous part of the mind, so to speak, is more developed in winter; the fleshy, in summer. I should say winter had given the bone and sinew to literature, summer the tissues and the blood.

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Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen.

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Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.

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Every mile is two in winter.

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In the bleak midwinter Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter, Long ago.

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If there comes a little thaw, Still the air is chill and raw, Here and there a patch of snow, Dirtier than the ground below, Dribbles down a marshy flood; Ankle-deep you stick in mud In the meadows while you sing, "This is Spring."

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