The years seemed to stretch before her like the land: spring, summer, autumn, winter, spring; always the same patient fields, the patient little tree… - Willa Cather

No one can build his security upon the nobleness of another person.

The rich, noisy city, fat with food and drink, is a spent thing; it's chief concern is its digestion and its little game of hide-and-seek with the undertaker. Money and office and success are the consolations of impotence. Fortune turns kind to such solid people and lets them suck their bone in peace. She flecks her whip upon flesh that is more alive, upon that stream of hungry boys and girls who tramp the streets of every city, recognizable by their pride and discontent, who are the Future, and who possess the treasure of creative power.

During those last weeks of the Bishop's life he thought very little about death; it was the Past he was leaving. The future would take care of itself.