To me, nothing else about a tree is so remarkable as the extreme delicacy of the mechanism by which it grows and lives: the fine, hair-like rootlets at the bottom and the microscopical cells of the leaves at the top.
If you think you can do it, you can.
All birds are incipient or would-be songsters in the spring. I find corroborative evidence of this even in the crowing of the cock.
Life is a struggle, but not a warfare.
Without the emotion of the beautiful, the sublime, the mysterious, there is no art, no religion, no literature.
If we take science as our sole guide, if we accept and hold fast that alone which is verifiable, the old theology must go.