The sun shines not on us but in us. The rivers flow not past, but through us. Thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell of the substance of our bodies, making them glide and sing. The trees wave and the flowers bloom in our bodies as well as our souls, and every bird song, wind song, and tremendous storm song of the rocks in the heart of the mountains is our song, our very own, and sings our love.

Men use care in purchasing a horse, and are neglectful in choosing friends.

The gross heathenism of civilization has generally destroyed nature, and poetry, and all that is spiritual.

Some people miss flesh as a drunkard misses his dram.

Writing is like the life of a glacier; one eternal grind.

Lie down among the pines for a while, then get to plain pure white love-work ... to help humanity and other mortals and the Lord.

So also there are tides and floods in the affairs of men, which in some are slight and may be kept within bounds, but in others they overmaster everything.