Quotes About Forest

His eyes were eggs of unstable crystal, vibrating with a frequency whose name was rain and the sound of trains, suddenly sprouting a humming forest of hair-fine glass spines.

When a smile touches our hearts. When the forest stills us to peace. When music moves us to rapture. When we really love, laugh or dance with joy. We are at one with the Angels.

Imagine me; I shall not exist if you do not imagine me; try to discern the doe in me, trembling in the forest of my own iniquity; let's even smile a little. After all, there is no harm in smiling.

that method of storytelling is forgotten, that time of Eddie's in which everyone seemed to add memory on memory deep in the forest, layers of dirt and leaves and branches get covered up—in a sense the past is underfoot.

THE WILD BOAR AND THE FOX A Wild Boar was engaged in whetting his tusks upon the trunk of a tree in the forest when a Fox came by and, seeing what he was at, said to him, Why are you doing that, pray? The huntsmen are not out to-day, and there are no other dangers at hand that I can see. True, my friend, replied the Boar, but the instant my life is in danger I shall need to use my tusks. There'll be no time to sharpen them then.

Peace is within oneself to be found in the same place as agitation and suffering. It is not found in a forest or on a hilltop, nor is it given by a teacher. Where you experience suffering, you can also find freedom from suffering. Trying to run away from suffering is actually to run toward it.

If Mr. Darwin were to be believed, then it was from the timeless dapple of the forest's canopy that men had first descended, and it was the forest's roots that drank men's bodies when they died, returned their vital salts back to the prehistoric treetops in gold elevator cages made of sap.

In the deserted harbour there is yet water that laps against the quays. In the dark and silent forest, there is a leaf that falls. Behind the polished panelling the white ant eats away the wood. Nothing is ever quiet, except for fools

Kali is the forest. She is wild. Gauri is the garden. She is domestic. Kali stays outside the house. Gauri comes inside the house. That is why what is outside is scary and what is inside is not.

It is not about being a hermit in the forest. It is about overpowering lust and attachment wherever you are.

Neither Sita nor Ram let the forest erode their values. Wherever they go, they hold on to the principles of dharma. They may have left Ayodhya, but Ayodhya never leaves them.

You give them too much dignity,' said Lakshman as he lit the pyre. 'It is the only way to remind ourselves that we are still humans,' said Ram. 'Let the forest and its fears not claim you. Stay true to the idea of dharma. Be the best you can be, in the worst of circumstances, even when no one is watching.

Ram is renowned as maryada purushottam, one who always follows the rules. That he breaks the bow he is meant to bend and string is not insignificant. It indicates a wavering of the mind, or perhaps a momentary loss of balance. That he breaks the bow of Shiva, who is associated with detachment, perhaps indicates a moment of attachment to Sita. This makes exile a necessity, for in the forest the prince shall learn about detachment before he is ready to be king.

This is what I believe: That I am I. That my soul is a dark forest. That my known self will never be more than a little clearing in the forest. That gods, strange gods, come forth from the forest into the clearing of my known self, and then go back. That I must have the courage to let them come and go. That I will never let mankind put anything over me, but that I will try always to recognize and submit to the gods in me and the gods in other men and women. There is my creed.

I want to remind you that the forest is far more than a source of timber. It is our collective medicine cabinet. It is our lungs. It is the regulatory system for our climate and our oceans. It is the mantle of our planet. It is the health and well-being of our children and grandchildren. It is our sacred home. It is our salvation.

I want to remind you that the forest is far more than a source of timber. It is our collective medicine cabinet. It is our lungs. It is the regulatory system for our climate and our oceans. It is the mantle of our planet. It is the health and well-being of our children and grandchildren. It is our sacred home.

There is no description, no image in any book that is capable of replacing the sight of real trees, and all of the life to be found around them in a real forest.

Neither my life of luxury in the palace -nor- my life as ascetic in the forest were ways to enlightenment.

A horse broke through beside her, nearly knocking the mare over. At first Marian thought the horse unmounted, possibly Gisbourne's, running from the boar, because she saw no rider—and then she did see him and realized he was clad in the colors of the forest, nearly invisible, almost indistinguishable against the emerald, olive, and jade. It was the shock of white-blond hair that betrayed his identity, and the grimness of his features.

Home. When it rains, you can smell the leaves in the forest and the sand. It's all so small and mild, the landscape surrounding the lake, so manageable. The leaves and the sand are so close, it's as if you might, if you wanted, pull them on over your head. And the lake always laps at the shore so gently, licking the hand you dip into it like a young dog, and the water is soft and shallow.

Remember the woods were God's first temples.

But that was how it had to go, for the death of a rotten tree is always rapid: one violent shake and over it goes. Its broad canopy, which for many years rose up in its place in the forest, has suddenly vanished. For a while there is a space in the forest cover, but soon the space is filled by new growth, as if nothing had happened.

So many little animals, oh my. There can't be so many anywhere else.' 'There can't,' he muttered. 'Nowhere else. This is Brokilon.' 'What?' 'Brokilon. The Last Place.' 'I don't understand.' 'No one understands. No one wants to understand.

The fog lying on Myrkvid Forest was dense and had an irregular shape, calling to mind a heap of whipped cream squeezed onto a cake by a lunatic cook.