But more wonderful than the lore of old men and the lore of books is the secret lore of ocean.
The old cathedrals are good, but the great blue dome that hangs over everything is better.
Except during the nine months before he draws his first breath, no man manages his affairs as well as a tree does.
Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, and she hides it well.
In June as many as a dozen species may burst their buds on a single day. No man can heed all of these anniversaries; no man can ignore all of them.
Energy, like the biblical grain of the mustard-seed, will remove mountains.
The stars that have most glory have no rest.
Flowers are without hope. Because hope is tomorrow and flowers have no tomorrow.
These flowers, which were splendid and sprightly, waking in the dawn of the morning, in the evening will be a pitiful frivolity, sleeping in the cold night’s arms.
Nature’s far too subtle to repeat herself.
It was one of those perfect English autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life.
The fulness of the godhead dwelt in every blade of grass.
Occurrences in this domain are beyond the reach of exact prediction because of the variety of factors in operation, not because of any lack of order in nature.
My recollection of a hundred lovely lakes has given me blessed release from care and worry and the troubled thinking of our modern day. It has been a return to the primitive and the peaceful.
What law, what reason can deny that gift so sweet, so natural that God has given a stream, a fish, a beast, a bird?
The little windflower, whose just opened eye is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.
The fall is my favorite time of year. I love the colors. The sun is out, you get warmth on your skin but there’s the coolness of the breeze. It’s really comfortable.
I remember a hundred lovely lakes, and recall the fragrant breath of pine and fir and cedar and poplar trees. The trail has strung upon it, as upon a thread of silk, opalescent dawns and saffron sunsets.
My progress was rendered delightful by the sylvan elegance of the groves, chearful meadows, and high distant forests, which in grand order presented themselves to view.
Nature abhors annihilation.
Maybe nature is fundamentally ugly, chaotic and complicated. But if it’s like that, then I want out.
Nothing is farther than earth from heaven; nothing is nearer than heaven to earth.
The mind, in proportion as it is cut off from free communication with nature, with revelation, with God, with itself, loses its life, just as the body droops when debarred from the air and the cheering light from heaven.
The earth is yet the place of the domicile of man and all the offspring of the first man.
Nature is inside art as its content, not outside as its model.
