John Muir

We are now in the mountains and they are in us.

Kindling enthusiasm, making every nerve quiver, filling every pore and cell of us.

The sun shines not on us, but in us.

The rivers flow not past, but through us.

Thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell of the substance of our bodies.

making them glide and sing.

The trees wave and the flowers bloom in our bodies as well as our souls.

And every bird song, wind song,

and tremendous storm song of the rocks in the heart of the mountains is our song our very own and sings our love

another glorious Sierra day in which one seems to be dissolved and absorbed and sent pulsing onward we know not where.

Life seems neither long nor short

and we take no more heed to save time or make haste than do the trees and stars.

This is true freedom, a good practical sort of immortality.

I only went out for a walk and finally concluded to stay out till sundown.

For going out I found was really going in.

These mountains are our holy land, and we ought to saunter through them reverently, not hike through them.

In every walk with nature one receives far more than they seek.

In this silent, serene wilderness the weary can gain a heart bath in perfect peace.

for between every two pines is a doorway to a new world.

To sit in solitude, to think in solitude,