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.

The lake and the mountains have become my landscape, my real world.

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.

I'm very gregarious, but I love being in the hills on my own.

Occasionally I have come across a last patch of snow on top of a mountain in late May or June. There's something very powerful about finding snow in summer.

Flowers are without hope. Because hope is tomorrow and flowers have no tomorrow.

Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light.

Understanding the laws of nature does not mean that we are immune to their operations.

There is no forgiveness in nature.

Those little nimble musicians of the air, that warble forth their curious ditties, with which nature hath furnished them to the shame of art.