Winds are advertisements of all they touch, however much or little we may be able to read them; telling their wanderings ever by their accents alone.

Who publishes the sheet-music of the winds or the music of water written in river-lines?

Yosemite Park is a place of rest, a refuge from the roar and dust and weary, nervous, wasting work of the lowlands, in which one gains the advantages of both s…

We all travel the milky way together, trees and men... trees are travellers, in the ordinary sense. They make journeys, not very extensive ones, it is true: bu…

Who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I: But when the trees bow down their heads The wind is passing by.

These seem like bristles, and the hide is tough. No claw or web here: each foot ends in hoof.

Cold, delicately as the dark snow, A fox's nose touches twig, leaf; Two eyes serve a movement, that now And again now, and now, and now Sets neat prints into t…