Another glorious day, the air as delicious to the lungs as nectar to the tongue.
Nature is always lovely, invincible, glad, whatever is done and suffered by her creatures. All scars she heals, whether in rocks or water or sky or hearts.
Doubly happy, however, is the man to whom lofty mountain tops are within reach.
How lavish is Nature building, pulling down, creating, destroying, chasing every material particle from form to form, ever changing, ever beautiful.
One can make a day of any size.
One can make a day of any size and regulate the rising and setting of his own sun and the brightness of its shining.
In drying plants, botanists often dry themselves. Dry words and dry facts will not fire hearts.
Galen Clark was the best mountaineer I ever met, and one of the kindest and most amiable of all my mountain friends.
I ran home in the moonlight with firm strides; for the sun-love made me strong.
Take a course in good water and air; and in the eternal youth of Nature you may renew your own. Go quietly, alone; no harm will befall you.
There is not a fragment in all nature, for every relative fragment of one thing is a full harmonious unit in itself.
In God’s wildness lies the hope of the world-the great fresh unblighted, unredeemed wilderness. The galling harness of civilization drops off, and wounds heal ere we are aware.
Rivers flow not past, but through us; tingling, vibrating, exciting every cell and fiber in our bodies, making them sing and glide.
Only spread a fern-frond over a man’s head and worldly cares are cast out, and freedom and beauty and peace come in.
I must return to the mountains-to Yosemite. I am told that the winter storms there will not be easily borne, but I am bewitched, enchanted, and tomorrow I must start for the great temple to listen to the winter songs and sermons preached and sung only there.
Few are altogether deaf to the preaching of pine trees. Their sermons on the mountains go to our hearts; and if people in general could be got into the woods, even for once, to hear the trees speak for themselves, all difficulties in the way of forest preservation would vanish.
I have a low opinion of books: they are piles of stones set up to show coming travelers where other minds have been, or at best signal smokes to call attention...
The sun shines not on us but in us.
I am well again, I came to life in the cool winds and crystal waters of the mountains.
Most people are on the world, not in it – having no conscious sympathy or relationship to anything about them – undiffused seporate, and rigidly alone like marbles of polished stone, touching but seporate.