I ran home in the moonlight with firm strides; for the sun-love made me strong.

Come to the woods, for here is rest. There is no repose like that of the green deep woods. Here grow the wallflower and the violet. The squirrel will come and sit upon your knee, the logcock will wake you in the morning. Sleep in forgetfulness of all ill. Of all the upness accessible to mortals, there is no upness comparable to the mountains.

Nothing truly wild is unclean.

Between every two pines is a doorway to a new world.

I will follow my instincts, be myself for good or ill, and see what will be the upshot.

I wonder if leaves feel lonely when they see their neighbors falling?

One learns that the world, though made, is yet being made; that this is still the morning of creation; that mountains long conceived are now being born, channels traced for coming rivers, basins hollowed for lakes.