“It was the afternoon of the day and the afternoon of his life, and his course was now westward down all the mountains into the sunset.”

Climb the mountains and get their good tidings.

The galling harness of civilization drops off, and wounds heal ere we are aware.

Go where we will, all the world over, we seem to have been there before.

Yet through all this stress the forest is maintained in marvelous beauty.

Night is coming on and I am filled with indescribable loneliness. Felt feverish; bathed in a black, silent stream.

The power of imagination makes us infinite.

Going to the mountains is going home.

The deeper the solitude the less the sense of loneliness, and the nearer our friends.

It is always interesting to see people in dead earnest, from whatever cause, and earthquakes make everybody earnest.

We are now in the mountains and they are in us, kindling enthusiasm, making every nerve quiver, filling every pore and cell of us.

I never saw a discontented tree.

One day’s exposure to mountains is better than a cartload of books.

So also there are tides and floods in the affairs of men, which in some are slight and may be kept within bounds, but in others they overmaster everything.

The soft light of morning falls upon ripening forests of oak and elm, walnut and hickory, and all Nature is thoughtful and calm.

It seems supernatural, but only because it is not understood.

We all travel the Milky Way together, trees and men.