“As age comes on, one source of enjoyment after another is closed, but nature’s sources never fail.”

Every hidden cell is throbbing with music and life, every fiber thrilling like harp strings.

The rivers flow not past, but through us, thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell of the substance of our bodies, making them glide and sing.

Going to the woods is going home.

Earth has no sorrow that earth can not heal.

Most people who travel look only at what they are directed to look at. Great is the power of the guidebook maker, however ignorant.

There is a love of wild nature in everybody, an ancient mother-love showing itself whether recognized or no, and however covered by cares and duties.

Mountains are our Holy Land, and we ought to saunter through them reverently, not ‘hike’ through them.

Wildness is a necessity.

What a psalm the storm was singing, and how fresh the smell of the washed earth and leaves, and how sweet the still small voices of the storm!

How narrow we selfish conceited creatures are in our sympathies! How blind to the rights of all the rest of creation!

Every sight and sound inspiring, leading one far out of himself, yet feeding and building up his individuality.

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.

Take me into the mountains.

God has cared for these trees, saved them from drought, disease, avalanches, and a thousand tempests and floods. But he cannot save them from fool.

Handle a book as a bee does a flower, extract its sweetness but do not damage it.

The sun shines not on us but in us.

Eating bread in Hollywood is a no-no!

I am above eighty years old … I suppose I am about the only colored woman that goes about to speak for the rights of the colored women. I want to keep the thing stirring, now that the ice is cracked.

The only way to save Social Security is to raise the retirement age.

Maybe age is kinder to us than we think. With my bad eyes, I can’t see how bad I look, and with my rotten memory, I have a good excuse for getting out of a lot of stuff.

Old age is always ten years more than we are.

Happiness, at my age, is breathing

With age come the inner, the higher life. Who would be forever young, to dwell always in externals?

A patriot is a fool in ev’ry age.