Serene, I Fold My Hands

Every Walk To The Woods Is A Religious Rite, Every Bath In The Stream Is A Saving Ordinance. Communion Service Is At All Hours, And The Bread And Wine Are From The Heart And Marrow Of Mother Earth. There Are No Heretics In Nature's Church; All Are Believers, All Are Communicants. The Beauty Of Natural Religion Is That You Have It All The Time; You Do Not Have To Seek It Afar Off In Myths And Legends, In Catacombs, In Garbled Texts, In Miracles Of Dead Saints Or Wine-bibbing Friars. It Is Of Today; It Is Now And Here; It Is Everywhere.

One Resolution I Have Made, And Try Always To Keep, Is This: ‘to Rise Above Little Things’.

We Have Produced Some Good Walkers And Saunterers, And Some Noted Climbers; But As A Staple Recreation, As A Daily Practice, The Mass Of The People Dislike And Despise Walking.

The Smallest Deed Is Better Than The Greatest Intention.

All Sounds Are Sharper In Winter; The Air Transmits Better. At Night I Hear More Distinctly The Steady Roar Of The North Mountain. In Summer It Is A Sort Of Complacent Purr, As The Breezes Stroke Down Its Sides; But In Winter Always The Same Low, Sullen Growl.