God of life,
there are days when the burdens we carry
are heavy on our shoulders and weigh us down,
when the road seems dreary and endless,
the skies gray and threatening,
when our lives have no music in them,
and our hearts are lonely,
and our souls have lost their courage.

Flood the path with light, 
turn our eyes to where the skies are full of promise;
tune our hearts to brave music;
give us the sense of comradeship
with heroes and saints of every age;
and so quicken our spirits 
that we may be able to encourage
the souls of all who journey with us on the road of life,
to your honor and glory.
Amen.
(~St. Augustine)

What a miracle it is that out of these small, flat, rigid squares of paper unfolds world after world after world, worlds that sing to you, comfort and quiet or excite you. Books help us understand who we are and how we are to behave. They show us what community and friendship mean; they show us how to live and die.
(~Anne Lamott)

'What makes the desert beautiful,' said the little prince, 'is that somewhere it hides a well...'

(~Antoine de Saint-Exupery)

when green becomes tomatoes there will be sky and sun and possibly a 
     cloud or two
when green becomes tomatoes there will be leaves and flowers tall and 
     standing straight and someone splashing, jumping, diving down
when green becomes tomatoes there will be wings and something inching, 
     green and small and a sweetly, tweetly chirping song
when green becomes tomatoes there will be round and there will be red 
     and there will be tomatoes (more red than green) (more round than 
     seed) (more on the vine than way deep down)
when green becomes tomatoes
(~Julie Fogliano)

The half-life of love is forever.
(~Junot Diaz)

Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass on a summer day listening to the murmur of water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is hardly a waste of time. 
(~John Lubbock)

As imperceptibly as grief
The summer lapsed away,--
Too imperceptible, at last,
To seem like perfidy.

A quietness distilled,
As twilight long begun,
Or Nature, spending with herself
Sequestered afternoon.

The dusk drew earlier in,
The morning foreign shone,--
A courteous, yet harrowing grace,
As guest who would be gone.

And thus, without a wing,
Or service of a keel,
Our summer made her light escape
Into the beautiful.

(~Emily Dickinson)