A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song. A few minutes ago every tree was excited, bowing to the roaring storm, waving, swirling, tossing their branches in glorious enthusiasm like worship. But though to the outer ear these trees are now silent, their songs never cease. A forest of these trees is a spectacle too much for one man to see. A hen is only an egg's way of making another egg. A lot of people like snow. I find it to be an unnecessary freezing of water. A mistake is simply another way of doing things. A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books. A woodland in full color is awesome as a forest fire, in magnitude at least, but a single tree is like a dancing tongue of flame to warm the heart. Adapt or perish, now as ever, is nature's inexorable imperative. Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience. Ah, summer, what power you have to make us suffer and like it. All my life I have tried to pluck a thistle and plant a flower wherever the flower would grow in thought and mind. All things are artificial, for nature is the art of God. All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was. And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything. Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower. Beauty for some provides escape, who gain a happiness in eyeing the gorgeous buttocks of the ape or Autumn sunsets exquisitely dying. Birds have wings; they're free; they can fly where they want when they want. They have the kind of mobility many people envy. Birds sing after a storm; why shouldn't people feel as free to delight in whatever remains to them?
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