Montana. It's everything Colorado thinks it is.

Montana. It's everything Colorado thinks it is.

How sweet to move at summer's eve
By Clyde's meandering stream,
When Sol in joy is seen read more

How sweet to move at summer's eve
By Clyde's meandering stream,
When Sol in joy is seen to leave
The earth with crimson beam;
When islands that wandered far
Above his sea couch lie,
And here and there some gem-like star
Re-opes its sparkling eye.

I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have
to live than other things do.

I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have
to live than other things do.

Oh, leave this barren spot to me!
Spare, woodman, space the beechen tree!

Oh, leave this barren spot to me!
Spare, woodman, space the beechen tree!

It was the noise
Of ancient trees falling while all was still
Before the storm, in the read more

It was the noise
Of ancient trees falling while all was still
Before the storm, in the long interval
Between the gathering clouds and that light breeze
Which Germans call the Wind's bride.

Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of
course I usually read more

Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of
course I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends
think I shouldn't. Like many fly fishermen in western Montana
where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not
start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic
half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my
soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a
four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.

Either make the tree food, and his fruit good; or else make the
tree corrupt, and his fruit corrupt: read more

Either make the tree food, and his fruit good; or else make the
tree corrupt, and his fruit corrupt: for the tree is known by
his fruit.

Flow on, lovely Dee, flow on, thou sweet river,
Thy banks' purest stream shall be dear to me ever.

Flow on, lovely Dee, flow on, thou sweet river,
Thy banks' purest stream shall be dear to me ever.

Then I saw the Congo, creeping through the black,
Cutting through the jungle with a golden track.

Then I saw the Congo, creeping through the black,
Cutting through the jungle with a golden track.