“Emerson is the spokesman and prophet of youth and of a formative, idealistic age. His is a voice from the heights which are ever bathed in the sunshine of the spirit.”

How many thorns of human nature are bristling conceits, buds of promise grown sharp for want of congenial climate.

I seldom go into a natural history museum without feeling as if I were attending a funeral.

Leap, and the net will appear.

The distribution of plants in a given locality is not more marked and defined than that of the birds. Show a botanist a landscape, and he will tell you where to look for the lady’s-slipper, the columbine, or the harebell.

It seems to me that evolution adds greatly to the wonder of life because it takes it out of the realm of the arbitrary, the exceptional, and links it to the sequence of natural causation.

Where country life is safe and enjoyable, where many of the conveniences and appliances of the town are joined to the large freedom and large benefits of the country, a high state of civilization prevails.

One may summon his philosophy when they are beaten in battle, not till then.

Joy in the universe, and keen curiosity about it all – that has been my religion.

I go to nature to be soothed and healed, and to have my senses put in order.

Fear, love, and hunger were the agents that developed the wits of the lower animals, as they were, of course, the prime factors in developing the intelligence of man.

There never was a happier or more devoted husband than the male bluebird. He is the gay champion and escort of the female at all times, and while she is sitting, he feeds her regularly.

Emerson stands apart from the other poets and essayists of New England, and of English literature generally, as of another order.

How beautiful the leaves grow old. How full of light and color are their last days.

Unadulterated, unsweetened observations are what the real nature-lover craves. No man can invent incidents and traits as interesting as the reality.

My life has been a fortunate one; I was born under a lucky star. It seems as if both wind and tide had favoured me.

The Infinite cannot be measured. The plan of Nature is so immense, but she has no plan, no scheme, but to go on and on forever. What is size, what is time, distance, to the Infinite?