“There is no gilding of setting sun or glamor of poetry to light up the ferocious and endless toil of the farmers' wives.”
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Whenever the pressure of our complex city life thins my blood and numbs my brain, I seek relief in the trail and when I hear the coyote wailing to the yellow dawn, my cares fall from me - I am happy.
My recollection of a hundred lovely lakes has given me blessed release from care and worry and the troubled thinking of our modern day. It has been a return to the primitive and the peaceful.
I remember a hundred lovely lakes, and recall the fragrant breath of pine and fir and cedar and poplar trees. The trail has strung upon it, as upon a thread of silk, opalescent dawns and saffron sunsets.
The great watershed of modern poetry is French, more than English.