Where would the end be? Will the idea-the definition-of perfection stay the same? No. Perfection is too fickle. It’s in our nature to never be satisfied. We always think we can do more.
I closed my eyes and turned my face into the cold wind. When I felt it swept along my skin there was no past. No future. Just now.
Man is a phase of nature, and only as he is related to nature does he matter, does he have any account whatever above the dust.
People don’t know to make a leaf, but they know how to destroy one.
Summer has weeks left, but once the calendar displays the word “September,
By the shores of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis,
Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis,
Dark behind it rose the forest,
Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees,
Rose the firs with cones upon them;
Bright before it beat the water,
Beat the clear and sunny water,
Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water.
Our existence and our environment enclosed entities of divinity.
Dance,’ they told me, and I stood still,
and while I stood quiet in line at the gate of the Kingdom, I danced.
‘Pray,’ they said, and I laughed,
covering myself in the earth’s brightnesses,
and then stole off gray into the midst of a revel,
and prayed like an orphan.
From the old wood came an ancient melancholy, somehow soothing to her, better than the harsh insentience of the outer world. She liked the inwardness of the remnant of forest, the unspeaking reticence of the old trees. They seemed a very power of silence, and yet a vital presence. They, too, were waiting: obstinately, stoically waiting, and giving off a potency of silence.
Nature responds to your respect and gratitude by creating a magical energy of blessings in return.