. . . a man does not die for business, but for ideals.
They know who keep a broken tryst, Till something from the Spring be missed We have not truly known the Spring.
He is likely to remain the one historian of the Sierra; he imported into his view the imagination of the poet and the reverence of the worshipper. . . . William Kent, during Muir’s life, paid him a rare tribute in giving to the nation a park of redwoods with the understanding that it should be named Muir Woods. But the nation owes him more. His work was not sectional but for the whole people, for he was the real father of the forest reservations of America.
Beauty, the smile of God, Music, His voice.
In tears I tossed my coin from Trevi's edge. A coin unsordid as a bond of love-- And, with the instinct of the homing dove, I gave to Rome my rendezvous and pledge. And when imperious Death Has quenched my flame of breath, Oh, let me join the faithful shades that throng that fount above.
I've never seen a Lindy Hopper who wasn't smiling. It's a happy dance. It makes you feel good.
Do not act incautiously when confronting a little bald wrinkly smiling man!
There is no thing that with a twist of the imagination cannot be something else. Porpoises risen in a green sea, the wind at nightfall bending the rose- red grasses and you- in your apron hurrying to catch- say it seems to you to be your son. How ridiculous! You will pass up into a cloud and look back at me, not count the scribbling foolish that put wings at your heels, at your knees.
It is war that wastes a nations wealth, chokes its industries, kills its flower, narrows its sympathies, condemns it to be governed by adventurers, and leaves the puny, deformed, and unmanly to breed the next generation.