Quotes About Forest

Der Weglose Wald verdiente seinen Namen. Er schien kein Anfang und kein Ende zu haben, wie ein grünes Meer, in dem man ebenso leicht ertrinken konnte wie in den Wellen seines salzig nassen Namensvettern.

A mesa com o mapa da floresta já servira de mesa de jantar para o moleiro sua família. Agora servia à morte. À morte e ao medo.

The Bohemian Grove has held secret meetings for the global elite since 1873 in a redwood forest of northern California. In addition to Republican presidents Eisenhower, Nixon, Reagan, and George H. W. Bush, members have included James Baker, Richard Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld, David Rockefeller, William Casey, and Henry Kissinger. Each year, the members don red, black, and silver robes and conduct a ritual in which they worship a giant stone owl.

When this map was made, there was only empty forest in the south, Gran told Birle. Not empty, Granda corrected her. The forest is never empty.

Looked at from where she sat unsleeping, the sky seemed walled in by forest. It looked as if there was a river of sky matching the water river below.

From the old wood came an ancient melancholy, somehow soothing to her, better than the harsh insentience of the outer world. She liked the inwardness of the remnant of forest, the unspeaking reticence of the old trees. They seemed a very power of silence, and yet a vital presence. They, too, were waiting: obstinately, stoically waiting, and giving off a potency of silence.

When we get out of the glass bottle of our ego and when we escape like the squirrels in the cage of our personality and get into the forest again, we shall shiver with cold and fright. But things will happen to us so that we don't know ourselves. Cool, unlying life will rush in

In those sombre forests of his striving his own soul rose before him, and he saw himself,—darkly as through a veil;

Proud music of the sea-storm! Blast that careers so free, whistling across the prairies! Strong hum of forest tree-tops! wind of the mountains! Personified dim shapes! you hidden orchestras! You serenades of phantoms, with instruments alert, Blending, with Nature's rhythmus, all the tongues of nations; You chords left as by vast composers! you choruses!

The soil under the grass is dreaming of a young forest, and under the pavement the soil is dreaming of grass.

The grandeur and strength or our people and democracy are as big as a forest.

Water fell from the sky and dripped from the branches, streaming down the gully of the trail. I walked beneath the enormous trees, the forest canopy high above me, the bushes and low-growing plants that edged the trail soaking me as I brushed past. Wet and miserable as it was, the forest was magical—Gothic in its green grandiosity, both luminous and dark, so lavish in its fecundity that it looked surreal, as if I were walking through a fairy tale rather than the actual world.

Unlike the Indians, who gathered branches for firewood, the first white settlers girdled the trees to clear the land. And the great forest began to dwindle. As they would everywhere they went, the settlers used up the land to the point where they couldn't grow enough food.

Stripping was a simple process, really. It was possible for a very few men with the right equipment—and without all the hazards usually accompanying tunnel mining—to reduce prime forest and farm land to bare rock in a relatively short time.

It's all about colour and texture. It's about being outside in the middle of deciduous forest, the tall grasses and rustling leaves. You can take one maple leaf and see almost all the colours of the rainbow in it — although you would need your imagination to see blue.

But indeed, it is not so much for its beauty that the forest makes a claim upon men's hearts, as for that subtle something, that quality of the air, that emanation from the old trees, that so wonderfully changes and renews a weary spirit.

The lakes are something which you are unprepared for; they lie up so high, exposed to the light, and the forest is diminished to a fine fringe on their edges, with here and there a blue mountain, like amethyst jewels set around some jewel of the first water, — so anterior, so superior, to all the changes that are to take place on their shores, even now civil and refined, and fair as they can ever be.

There was a zone she had not explored. She could use the same counter, the same sort of password that she used with all these people, but she had passed over in the twinkling of an eye into another forest. This forest was reality. There, the very speaking of the words, conjured up answering sigil, house and barn and terrace and castle and river and little plum tree. A whole world was open. She looked in through a wide doorway.

A woodland in full color is awesome as a forest fire, in magnitude at least, but a single tree is like a dancing tongue of flame to warm the heart.

There was once a bundle of matches, and they were frightfully proud because of their high origin. Their family tree, that is to say the great pine tree of which they were each a little splinter, had been the giant of the forest.

Forgetfulness is like a song That, freed from beat and measure, wanders. Forgetfulness is like a bird whose wings are reconciled, Outspread and motionless, -- A bird that coasts the wind unwearyingly. Forgetfulness is rain at night, Or an old house in a forest, -- or a child. Forgetfulness is white, -- white as a blasted tree, And it may stun the sybil into prophecy, Or bury the Gods. I can remember much forgetfulness.

Her first thought, in the forest, was that she could not trust Lord Darkon enough to enlist his aid. But with the sprite's life in imminent danger, she would be a fool not to appeal to him. If he declined to help, she would simply look elsewhere and refuse to speak to her husband for the rest of his life.

Robin Hood just called, he wants Sherwood Forest back.

To think of the myriad ways that we live is to think of the ways that we die: Delinquent in our brains, in debt-- If we settle, then, our due account and walk through the forest, Will we finally be free?