John Greenleaf WhittierThinkers

Autumn is, in his leafless bowers, waiting for the winter’s snow.

Autumn is a mighty flower garden that blossoms in tints under the spell of enchanting frost.

The Book is not the thought which it contains, but the thought which it suggests... just as the charm of music dwells not in the tones but in the echoes of our hearts.

Despair is infidelity and death.

Man is more than constitutions.

October is a month of mugs of cider simmered slow, apples sputtered in a row, and baskets of nuts from brown October's wood.

Romance is always young.

Truth is one; And, in all lands beneath the sun, Whoso hath eyes to see may sec The token of its unity.