To The Lover Of Pure Wildness Alaska

I Wonder If Leaves Feel Lonely When They See Their Neighbors Falling?

Doubly Happy, However, Is The Man To Whom Lofty Mountain Tops Are Within Reach.

No Temple Made With Hands Can Compare With Yosemite.

Who Reports The Works And Ways Of The Clouds, Those Wondrous Creations Coming Into Being Every Day Like Freshly Upheaved Mountains?

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.