There must be some nerve and heroism in our love, as of a winter morning.
(Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862), U.S. philosopher, author, naturalist. Essay on "Chastity and Sensuality" in letter, September 1852, to Harrison Blake, in The Writings of Henry David Thoreau, vol. 6, p. 207, Houghton Mifflin (1906).)
On a late-winter evening in 1983, while driving through fog along the Maine coast, recollections of old campfires began to drift into the March mist, and I thought of the Abnaki Indians of the Algonquin tribe who dwelt near Bangor a thousand years ago.
(Norman Mailer (b. 1923), U.S. author. Harry Hubbard, in Harlot's Ghost, Omega 1, Random House (1991).
What is a farm but a mute gospel? The chaff and the wheat, weeds and plants, blight, rain, insects, sunit is a sacred emblem from the first furrow of spring to the last stack which the snow of winter overtakes in the fields.
(Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882), U.S. essayist, poet, philosopher. Nature, ch. 5 (1836, revised and repr. 1849).)