Quotes About Forest

Wrapped in the deep fragrance of the forest, I listen to the flapping of the birds' wings, to the stirring of the ferns. I'm freed from gravity and float up--just a little--from the ground and drift in the air. Of course I can't stay there forever. It's just a momentary sensation--open my eyes and it's gone. Still, it's an overwhelming experience. Being able to float in the air.

Everything ended in silence. The beasts and spirits heaved a deep breath, broke up their encirclement, and returned to the depths of a forest that had lost its heart.

I find writing novels a challenge, writing stories a joy. If writing novels is like planting a forest, then writing short stories is more like planting a garden.

It's fun being a princess, but it's not very practical! You're trudging through the forest and the mud and all of the elements. You kind of think, 'How did they do this back then?' Thank God I can put on my Nike trainers and walk around the rest of the day!

Training, and every morning I have to take my dogs out into the forest. That's all I'm doing. I'm staying out of everything else. All other things that can take out my concentration and my energy from the training.

Who has ever wandered through such forests, in a length of many miles, in a boundless expanse, without a path, without a goal, amid their monstrous shadows, their sacred gloom, without being filled with deep reverence for the sublime greatness of Nature above all human agency, without feeling the grandeur of the idea which forms the basis of Vidar's essence?

Love, unconquerable,Waster of rich men, keeperOf warm lights and all-night vigilIn the soft face of a girl:Sea-wanderer, forest-visitor!Even the pure immortals cannot escape you,And mortal man, in his one day's dusk,Trembles before your glory.

If I could write words Like leaves on an autumn forest floor, What a bonfire my letters would make. If I could speak words of water, You would drown when I said "I love you.

Philemon explained how Jung treated thoughts as though they were generated by himself, while for Philemon "thoughts were like animals in the forest, or people in a room, or birds in the air." Jung concluded that Philemon taught him "psychic objectivity, the reality of the psyche." This helped Jung to understand that there is something in me which can say things that I do not know and do not intend.

Beauty is a fading flower,Truth is but a wizard's tower,Where a solemn death-bell tolls,And a forest round it rolls.

In the hour before a thunderstorm, the color of the forest deepens: the pine needles take on a dense vibrant greenness they possess at no other time, the slender trunks go black, and the leaden sky above sinks lower by the minute.

Reversing the historical trajectory of human eating, for this meal the forest would be feeding us again.

I would definitely return to Austria. They were all good experiences for me, but definitely Austria because there were some ancient Celtic, sacred sites that were in the forest that were quite beautiful.

I don't like to be in the forest. It's a weird thing. I've learned to have a general appreciation for nature, which has taken a while. But the forest, I still don't really love.

I always liked those characters in 'True Blood' who could turn into animals. I'd love to be an animal of some kind and run quickly through a forest.

I love horses. I think I may have been one of Henry VIII's knights in another life, riding through a great forest.

There is still quite a lot of life out there, but it is mostly very small. According to a wildlife census by an ecologist at the University of Illinois named V. E. Shelford, a typical ten-square-mile block of eastern American forest holds almost 300,000 mammals—220,000 mice and other small rodents, 63,500 squirrels and chipmunks, 470 deer, 30 foxes, and 5 black bears.

Winter had long since come. It was freezing cold. Torn-up sounds and forms appeared with no evident connection from the frosty mist, stood, moved, vanished. Not the sun we are accustomed to on earth, but the crimson ball of some other substitute sun hung in the forest. From it, strainedly and slowly, as in a dream or a fairy tale, rays of amber yellow light, thick as honey, spread and on their way congealed in the air and froze to the trees.

Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts. Nor the woman in the ambulance Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly – A gift, a love gift Utterly unasked for By a sky Palely and flamily Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes Dulled to a halt under bowlers. Oh my God, what am I That these late mouths should cry open In a forest of frosts, in a dawn of cornflowers.

Well, just think of a forest floor after a wildfire's put out. The flames are gone, the ones you can see, but the ground's still hot because it's smoldering underneath, buried. A poke could set it off to roaring again. Cher, worrying about that poke will follow me to my grave!

It was the forest's fault. Those two handsome woodcutters. An evil place, the forest, everyone knew it, full of temptations and imps...

a redoubtable alchemy was at work behind impenetrable veils as the forest prepared its nocturnal mysteries.

The fish in the water is racked by thirst: I hear about it and burst out laughing. What you are looking for is right at home and yet you roam from forest to forest, full of gloom . . .

In battle, in forest, at the precipice in the mountains On the dark great sea, in the midst of javelins and arrows, In sleep, in confusion, in the depths of shame, The good deeds a man has done before defend him.