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Four seasons fill the measure of the year; there are four seasons in the mind of man

Give me books, fruit, French wine and fine weather and a little music out of doors, played by someone I do not know

The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children

If poetry comes not as naturally as the leaves to a tree, it had better not come at all

Scenery is fine - but human nature is finer

Squeeze human nature into the straitjacket of criminal justice and crime will appear