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And how should a beautiful, ignorant stream of water know it heads for an early release - out across the read more
And how should a beautiful, ignorant stream of water know it heads for an early release - out across the desert, running toward the Gulf, below sea level, to murmur its lullaby, and see the Imperial Valley rise out of burning sand with cotton blossoms, wheat, watermelons, roses, how should it know?
Look at us, said the violets blooming at her feet, all last winter we slept in the seeming death but read more
Look at us, said the violets blooming at her feet, all last winter we slept in the seeming death but at the right time God awakened us, and here we are to comfort you.
It isn't pollution that's harming the environment. It's the impurities in our air and water that are doing it.
It isn't pollution that's harming the environment. It's the impurities in our air and water that are doing it.
Each is like a river that leaves behind its name and shape, the whole course of its path, to vanish read more
Each is like a river that leaves behind its name and shape, the whole course of its path, to vanish into the vast sea of God.
Art is man's nature: Nature is God's art.
Art is man's nature: Nature is God's art.
For 200 years we've been conquering nature. Now we're beating it to death.
For 200 years we've been conquering nature. Now we're beating it to death.
The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be read more
The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quiet, alone with the heavens, nature and God. Because only then does one feel that all is as it should be and that God wishes to see people happy, amidst the simple beauty of nature. As long as this exists, and it certainly always will, I know that then there will always be comfort for every sorrow, whatever the circumstances may be. And I firmly believe that nature brings solace in all troubles.
Poetry is a rich, full-bodied whistle, cracked ice crunching in pails, the night that numbs the leaf, the duel of read more
Poetry is a rich, full-bodied whistle, cracked ice crunching in pails, the night that numbs the leaf, the duel of two nightingales, the sweet pea that has run wild, Creation's tears in shoulder blades.
What humbugs we are, who pretend to live for Beauty, and never see the Dawn!
What humbugs we are, who pretend to live for Beauty, and never see the Dawn!