And who will care, who will chide you if you wander away from wherever you are, to look for your soul?

Ordinarily, I go to the woods alone. When I'm alone I can hear the almost unhearable sound of the roses singing. If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must love you very much.

Who do you want to be in your one wild and precious life?

And it can keep you as busy as anything else, and happier.

... the natural world is the old river that runs through everything, and I think poets will forever fish along its shores.

And there you are on the shore, fitful and thoughtful, trying to attach them to an idea — some news of your own life. But the lilies are slippery and wild—they are devoid of meaning, they are simply doing, from the deepest spurs of their being, what they are impelled to do every summer. And so, dear sorrow, are you.

maybe death isn't darkness, after all, but so much light wrapping itself around us--