From his Journal:

On a February morning: “It is still thawy.”

In May: “This earth which is spread out like a map around me is but the lining of my inmost soul exposed.”

Same day: “There was a time when the beauty and the music were all within, and I sat and listened to my thoughts, and there was a song in them. I sat for hours on rocks and wrestled with the melody which possessed me. When you walked with a joy which knew not its own origin. Man should be the harp articulate. When your cords were tense.”