Hal Borland

Author

1900-05-14

Books by Hal Borland

When the Legends Die
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Prentice Hall Literature--Silver
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This hill, this valley
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Quotes by Hal Borland

Here and there one sees the blush of wild rose haws or the warmth of orange fruit on the bittersweet, and back in the woods is the occasional twinkle of partridgeberries. But they are the gem stones, the rare decorations which make the grays, the browns and the greens seem even more quiet, more completely at rest.
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Here and there one sees the blush of wild rose haws or the warmth of orange fruit on the bittersweet, and back in the woods is the occasional twinkle of partridgeberries. But they are the gem stones, the rare decorations which make the grays, the browns and the greens seem even more quiet, more completely at rest.
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A woodland in full color is awesome as a forest fire, in magnitude at least, but a single tree is like a dancing tongue of flame to warm the heart.
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No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn.
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The owl, that bird of onomatopoetic name, is a repetitious question wrapped in feathery insulation especially for Winter delivery.
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You can't be suspicious of a tree, or accuse a bird or a squirrel of subversion or challenge the ideology of a violet.
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Man is wise and constantly in quest of more wisdom; but the ultimate wisdom, which deals with beginnings, remains locked in a seed. There it lies, the simplest fact of the universe and at the same time the one which calls forth faith rather than reason.
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Year's end is neither an end nor a beginning but a going on, with all the wisdom that experience can instill in us.
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Knowing trees, I understand the meaning of patience. Knowing grass, I can appreciate persistence.
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All our yesterdays are summarized in our now, and all the tomorrows are ours to shape.
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If the voice of the brook was not the first song of celebration, it must have been at least an obbligato for that event.
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October is the fallen leaf, but it is also a wider horizon more clearly seen. It is the distant hills once more in sight, and the enduring constellations above them once again.
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March is a tomboy with tousled hair, a mischievous smile, mud on her shoes and a laugh in her voice.
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Here comes February, a little girl with her first valentine, a red bow in her windblown hair, a kiss waiting on her lips, a tantrum just back of her laughter.
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Summer ends, and Autumn comes, and he who would have it otherwise would have high tide always and a full moon every night.
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A woodland in full color is awesome as a forest fire, in magnitude at least; but a single tree is like a dancing tongue of flame to warm the heart.
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No Winter lasts forever, no Spring skips its turn. April is a promise that May is bound to keep, and we know it.
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There it is, fog, atmospheric moisture still uncertain in destination, not quite weather and not altogether mood, yet partaking of both.
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