Quotes About Moss

One gram of moss from the forest floor, a piece about the size of a muffin, would harbour 150,000 protozoa, 132,000 tardigrades, 3,000 springtails, 800 rotifers, 500 nematodes, 400 mites, and 200 fly larvae. These numbers tell us something about the astounding quantity of life in a handful of moss.

Here on the waste beds there are expanses without a living thing, but there are also teachers of healing and their names are Birch and Alder, Aster and Plantain, Cattail, Moss, and Switchgrass ... Nitrogen-fixing legumes in abundance, and clovers of all kinds, have also come to do their work ... Plants are the first restoration ecologists. They are using their gifts for healing the land, showing us the way.

The shape of the water is changed by the moss and the moss is shaped by the water.

The internal machinery of the cell can turn on and quickly repair the desiccation damage. Only twenty minutes after wetting, the moss can go from dehydration to full vigor.

Julie Andrews has a wonderful British strength that makes you wonder why they lost India.

He had a love affair with photosynthesis. He could talk about moss for an hour. He said that plants carried wisdom humans would never be around long enough to understand.

Pero era un sueño. Estábamos envueltos en algodón, en hilos de seda, en telas de araña, en musgo, en niebla, en el mar, en el sabor de una distancia que ha de aniquilarse-

Travel and society polish one, but a rolling stone gathers no moss, and a little moss is a good thing on a man.

his eyes were exactly the color of that gleaming golden-brown moss you see on stones under the clear water of running brooks.

I grew up in the North of England at a time when Stirling Moss was a hero. Everyone wanted to be a racing driver.

There's something about the Pacific Northwest, the scale of it, and the fact that not so long ago people came here and died getting here, and then died the first winter they were here. There's this breathtaking beauty, just a little bit of moss on the tree, just this little thread of danger, and the sinister. And I really like that.

The phoebe-bird is a wise architect and perhaps enjoys as great an immunity from danger, both in its person and its nest, as any other bird. Its modest ashen-gray suit is the color of the rocks where it builds, and the moss of which it makes such free use gives to its nest the look of a natural growth or accretion.

On the spur of the hill stood the ruins of an old brewery. The roof had long since disappeared and the rain had beaten the stone floors smooth and yellow. Some enterprising Englishman had spent a lifetime here making beer for his thirsty compatriots down in the plains. Now, moss and ferns grew from the walls.

Peter and I danced in bare feet in the cold wet undergrowth while the moon poured its wild old silver down on us and the water ran black and ancient and the moss shone.

Many-colored mosses, sickly green, pale, feverish red, yellow like fear, black like despair, purple like the lips of a strangled man, clung there.

Clambering up the Cold Mountain path, The Cold Mountain trail goes on and on: The long gorge choked with scree and boulders, The wide creek, the mist-blurred grass. The moss is slippery, though there's been no rain The pine sings, but there's no wind. Who can leap the world's ties And sit with me among the white clouds?

I'm part wood nymph. I require mountains and warm, dense patches of moss to thrive.

Tightly held by rocks Through winter, the ice today Begins to come undone: A way-seeker also is the water, Melting, murmuring from the moss.

Hiver bouclé comme un bison, Hiver crispé comme la mousse de crin blanc, Hiver aux puits d'arsenic rouge, aux poches d'huile et de bitume, Hiver au goût de skunk et de carabe fumée de bois de hickory, Hiver aux prismes et aux critaux dans les carrefours de diamant noir, Hiver sans thyrses ni flambeaux, Hiver sans roses ni piscines, Hiver ! Hiver! tes pommes de cèdre de vieux fer! tes fruits de pierre! tes insectes de cuivre !

Winter rain on moss soundlessly recalls those happy bygone days

Naelin loved the forest, all the layers and shades of green, so many shades that there weren't words to describe them all - a spectrum of green, from the hopeful green of new leaves to the contemplative moss green on the forest floor, so dark it was nearly black.

Soft moss a downy pillow makes, and green leaves spread a tent, Where Faerie fold may rest and sleep until their night is spent. The bluebird sings a lullaby, the firefly gives a light, The twinkling stars are candles bright, Sleep, Faeries all, Good Night.

See the gold sunshine patching, And streaming and streaking across The gray-green oaks; and catching, By its soft brown beard, the moss.

Thence, we drove a few miles across a swamp, along a raised shell road, with a canal on one hand and a dense wood on the other; and here and there, in the distance, a ragged and angular-limbed and moss-bearded cypress, top standing out, clear cut against the sky, and as quaint of form as the apple-trees in Japanese pictures—such was our course and the surroundings of it.