Every mile is two in winter.
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.
Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen.
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.
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.
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.
The world is a great book; he who never stirs from home reads only a page.
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.