+The love of nature, like all love, cannot be forced.+--It is not directly under the control of our will. We cannot set about it in deliberate fashion, as we set about earning a living. Still it can be cultivated. We can place ourselves in contact with Nature's more impressive aspects. We can go away by ourselves; stroll through the woods, watch the clouds; bask in the sunshine; brave the storm; listen to the notes of birds; find out the haunts of living creatures; learn the times and places in which to find the flowers; gaze upon the glowing sunset, and look up into the starry skies. If we thus keep close to Nature, she will draw us to herself, and whisper to us more and more of her hidden meaning.
The eye--it cannot choose but see; We cannot bid the year be still: Our bodies feel, where'er they be, Against or with our will.
Nor less I deem that there are powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feed these minds of ours In a wise passiveness.
+The more we feel of the beauty and significance of Nature the more we become capable of feeling.+--And this capacity to feel the influences which Nature is constantly throwing around us is an indispensable element in noble and elevated character. Our thoughts, our acts, yes, our very forms and features reflect the objects which we habitually welcome to our minds and hearts. And if we will have these expressions of ourselves noble and pure, we must drink constantly and deeply at Nature's fountains of beauty and truth. Wordsworth, the greatest interpreter of Nature, thus describes the effect of Nature's influence upon a sensitive soul:
She shall be sportive as the fawn That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute, insensate things.
The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend: Nor shall she fail to see, Even in the motions of the storm, Grace that shall mold the maiden's form By silent sympathy.
The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And Beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.