Quotes About Pines

Your voice, my friend, wanders in my heart, like the muffled sound of the sea among these listening pines.

The fire eye in the clouds survives the gods. To think of a dove with an eye of grenadine And the pines that are cornets, so it occurs, And a little island full of geese and stars: It may be that ignorant man, alone, Has any chance to mate his life with life That is the sensual, pearly spouse, the life That is fluent in even the wintriest bronze.

Ree followed a path made by prey uphill through scrub, across a bald knob and downhill into a section of pine trees and pine scent and that pious shade and silence pines create. Pine trees in low limbs spread over fresh snow made a stronger vault for the spirit than pews and pulpits ever could.

Poem by Cold Mountain Looking for a refuge Cold Mountain will keep you safe a faint wind stirs dark pines come closer the sound gets better below them sits a gray-haired man chanting Taoist texts ten years unable to return he forgot the way he came Translated by Red Pine

Why were there no cries of birds, no sounds of life, other than the incessant murmur of the brooding pines?

In our bones we need the natural curves of hills, the scent of chaparral, the whisper of pines, the possibility of wildness.

I do not know when it was, nor where it was, nor how young I may have been, but I can recall. . . a sudden feeling of happiness at hearing the voice of the pines.

Along a plateau the traveller passes the reservoir, the Wachusett Reservoir, its bank more or less covered with pines, to West Boylston, a village by the lakeside. "Mount" Wachusett looks over the wilderness from Clinton northward.

Prize the natural spaces and shorelines most of all, because once they're gone, with rare exceptions they're gone forever. In our bones we need the natural curves of hills, the scent of chapparal, the whisper of pines, the possibility of wildness. We require these patches of nature for our mental health and our spiritual resilience.

Moonlight and the murmur of pines blended together so that one could hardly tell which was light and which was sound.

It was November—the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines.

The woods were God's first temples, quoted Anne softly. One can't help feeling reverent and adoring in such a place. I always feel so near Him when I walk among the pines.

Now that the bad weather had come, we could leave Paris for a while for a place where this rain would be snow coming down through the pines and covering the road and the high hillsides and at an altitude where we would hear it creak as we walked home at night. Below Les Avants there was a chalet where the pension was wonderful and where we would be together and have our books and at night be warm in bed together with the windows open and the stars bright. That was where we could go.

Can words describe the fragrance of the very breath of spring - that delicious commingling of the perfume of arbutus, the odor of pines, and the snow - soaked soil just warming into life.

There must be many books, many lovely pines, to shield from hungry eyes the book that really matters, the wretched cave of our misfortune, the magic flower of winter!

She knew even before she opened her eyes that she was home—or not home, but in her woods at least. She knew they were her woods by the smell of pines and the quality of the air, a scrubbed, cool, clean sensation that she associated with the Merrimack River. She could hear the river, distantly, a gentle, soothing rush of sound that was really in no way like static.

Seeds in a dry pod, tick, tick, tick, Tick, tick, tick, what little iambics, While Homer and Whitman roared in the pines.

I remember salt smoke from a beach fire And shadows under the pines— Solid, clean…fixed— Seagulls perched at the tip of land, White upon green… And a wind comes through the pines To sway the shadows; The seagulls spread their wings, Lift And fill the sky with screeches. And I hear the wind Blowing across our beach, And the surf, And I see that our fire Has scorched the seaweed.

I couldn't sew on a day like this. There's something in the air that gets in the blood and makes a sort of glory in my soul. My fingers would twitch and I'd sew a crooked seam. So it's ho for the park and the pines.

Then from the sad west turning wearily, I saw the pines against the white north sky. Very beautiful, and still, and bending over Their sharp black heads against a quiet sky.

I feel drawn to little temples on lonely hilltops. With the mist swirling round them, and the wind humming in the stunted pines, they absorb some of the magic and mystery of their surroundings and transmit it to the questing pilgrim.

as the sound of water in the valleys, the singing of the hill people, the smell of the pines, and the blue smoke rising from the villages, are always with you in the Himalayas.

Stars filled every quadrant of the heavens. The moon drew her veil and then lowered it again, and the soft breeze made the pines shiver ever so slightly

Jace watched as the moon rose over the pines and scattered the mountainside with fool's gold. He rested against a large tree trunk as he leaned back into the dark shadow of the boughs and kicked himself mentally for thinking this was going to be easy. He should have known finding someone as complicated as Bo Hamilton wouldn't be easy.