Every moment has its pleasures and its hope.

To the attentive eye, each moment of the year has its own beauty, and in the same field, it beholds, every hour, a picture which was never seen before, and which shall never be seen again.

An hour is not merely an hour; it is a vase full of scents and sounds and projects and climates.

To me, every hour of the day and night is an unspeakably perfect miracle.

Every moment of light and dark is a miracle.

I think that to one in sympathy with nature, each season, in turn, seems the loveliest.

...there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun.

O seasons, O castles,
What soul is without flaws?
All its lore is known to me,
Felicity, it enchants us all.

If the wind will not serve, take to the oars. To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle.

TO EVERY THING there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

Every moment of the day — indeed, every moment throughout one’s life — offers an opportunity to be relaxed and responsive or to suffer unnecessarily.

Humor, like Death, has all seasons for his own.

I was out every day, and often all night, sleeping but little, studying the so-called wonders and common things ever on show, wading, climbing, sauntering among the blessed storms and calms, rejoicing in almost everything alike that I could see or hear: the glorious brightness of frosty mornings; the sunbeams pouring over the white domes and crags into the groves end waterfalls, kindling marvelous iris fires in the hoarfrost and spray; the great forests and mountains in their deep noon sleep; the good-night alpenglow; the stars; the solemn gazing moon, drawing the huge domes and headlands one by one glowing white out of the shadows hushed and breathless like an audience in awful enthusiasm, while the meadows at their feet sparkle with frost-stars like the sky; the sublime darkness of storm-nights, when all the lights are out; the clouds in whose depths the frail snow-flowers grow; the behavior and many voices of the different kinds of storms, trees, birds, waterfalls, and snow-avalanches in the ever-changing weather.