The poetry of the earth is never dead.
Nature's music is never over; her silences are pauses, not conclusions.
All of nature begins to whisper its secrets to us through its sounds. Sounds that were previously incomprehensible to our soul now become the meaningful language of nature.
The morning wind forever blows, the poem of creation is uninterrupted; but few are the ears to hear it.
The air is crowded with birds -- beautiful, tender, intelligent birds -- to whom life is a song.
Whenever there is stillness there is the still small voice, God's speaking from the whirlwind, nature's old song, and dance.
In a broader sense, the rhythms of nature, large and small - the sounds of wind and water, the sounds of birds and insects - must inevitably find their analogues in music.
To strong, susceptible characters, the music of nature is not confined to sweet sounds.
The softest thing I've ever heard are the wind chimes in my backyard. They are soft and cool and mellow.
A good river is nature's life work in song.
The first sparrow of spring! The year beginning with younger hope than ever!... What at such a time are histories, chronologies, traditions, and all written revelations? The brooks sing carols and glees to the spring.
All the sounds of the earth are like music.
All things in the world are singing a song, reciting a poem, inaudibly, to their surroundings, to the things they encounter.
