That man's best works should be such bungling imitations of Nature's infinite perfection, matters not much; but that he should read more

That man's best works should be such bungling imitations of Nature's infinite perfection, matters not much; but that he should make himself an imitation, this is the fact which Nature moans over, and deprecates beseechingly. Be spontaneous, be truthful, be free, and thus be individuals! is the song she sings through warbling birds, and whispering pines, and roaring waves, and screeching winds.

In the presence of eternity, the mountains are as transient as the clouds.

In the presence of eternity, the mountains are as transient as the clouds.

All finite things reveal infinitude: The mountain withi its singular bright shade Like the blue shine on freshly frozen snow, read more

All finite things reveal infinitude: The mountain withi its singular bright shade Like the blue shine on freshly frozen snow, The after-light upon ice-burdened pines; Odor of basswood upon a mountain slope, A scene beloved of bees; Silence of water above a sunken tree: The pure serene of memory of one man,-- A ripple widening from a single stone Winding around the waters of the world.

I love little children too but I don't cut off
their heads and stick them in vases.
http://www.egroups.com/messages/nomow108/1.

I love little children too but I don't cut off
their heads and stick them in vases.
http://www.egroups.com/messages/nomow108/1.

Rainbows apologize for angry skies.

Rainbows apologize for angry skies.

Things perfected by nature are better than those finished by art.
[Lat., Meliora sunt ea quae natura quam illa read more

Things perfected by nature are better than those finished by art.
[Lat., Meliora sunt ea quae natura quam illa quae arte perfecta
sunt.]

Lightning is the shorthand of a storm, and tells of chaos.

Lightning is the shorthand of a storm, and tells of chaos.

Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer's day, listening to the read more

Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer's day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.

I walk without flinching through the burning cathedral of the summer. My bank of wild grass is majestic and full read more

I walk without flinching through the burning cathedral of the summer. My bank of wild grass is majestic and full of music. It is a fire that solitude presses against my lips.