I come to my solitary woodland walk as the homesick go home.

You only need sit still long enough in some attractive spot in the woods that all its inhabitants may exhibit themselves to you by turns.

I have an immense appetite for solitude, like an infant for sleep, and if I don't get enough for this year, I shall cry all the next.

Good for the body is the work of the body, good for the soul the work of the soul, and good for either the work of the other.

I am too easily contented with a slight and almost animal happiness. My happiness is a good deal like that of the woodchucks.

The monster is never just there where we think he is. What is truly monstrous is our cowardice and sloth.

How can we expect a harvest of thought who have not had a seedtime of character?