Nature has no moods; they belong to man alone.
In this lies a heavy burden.
In former days, while watching the forms and colors of the clouds, I was obliged to look up into the sky. But now I see them resting on the earth below me.
I can pass hours, watching the passing clouds and their ever-changing forms as reflected on the mountains. The earth itself was fashioned from such fluid masses. No artist can realize the extent of this cloud-world, or its wealth of form. Before our thoughts attain fixed shape, they, too, must pass through this nebulous state, in which, however, we are unable to perceive them.
Singing birds, in great variety, have clustered at the edge of the forest. The notes of the lark, the yellowhammer, the green finch, the blackbird, the thrush, the red-tail, and the titmouse are heard all at once. Only a few of the birds that build their nests deep in the forest, sing there.
In springtime, forest rills become brooks. In summer, naught is visible, save the dry bed of the stream. It is the same with our own lives.