Time Does Not Become Sacred To Us

Science Is A Capital Or Fund Perpetually Reinvested; It Accumulates, Rolls Up, Is Carried Forward By Every New Man. Every Man Of Science Has All The Science Before Him To Go Upon, To Set Himself Up In Business With. What An Enormous Sum Darwin Availed Himself Of And Reinvested! Not So In Literature; To Every Poet, To Every Artist, It Is Still The First Day Of Creation, So Far As The Essentials Of His Task Are Concerned. Literature Is Not So Much A Fund To Be Reinvested As It Is A Crop To Be Ever New-grown.

The Longer I Live, The More My Mind Dwells Upon The Beauty And The Wonder Of The World.

In What Bold Relief Stand Out The Lives Of All Walkers Of The Snow! The Snow Is A Great Tell-tale, And Blabs As Effectually As It Obliterates. I Go Into The Woods, And Know All That Has Happened. I Cross The Fields, And If Only A Mouse Has Visited His Neighbor, The Fact Is Chronicled.

Man Takes Root At His Feet, And At Best He Is No More Than A Potted Plant In His House Or Carriage Till He Has Established Communication With The Soil By The Loving And Magnetic Touch Of His Soles To It.

I Seldom Go Into A Natural History Museum Without Feeling As If I Were Attending A Funeral.