“What a psalm the storm was singing, and how fresh the smell of the washed earth and leaves, and how sweet the still small voices of the storm!”
More from John Muir
“The rugged old Norsemen spoke of death as Heimgang—home-going. So the snow-flowers go home…”
“This grand show is eternal. It is always sunrise somewhere; the dew is never all dried at…”
“The wrongs done to trees, wrongs of every sort, are done in the darkness of ignorance and…”
“Sit down in climbing, and hear the pines sing.”