Quotes About Trees

Planting trees, I myself thought for a long time, was a feel-good thing, a nice but feeble response to our litany of modern-day environmental problems. In the last few years, though, as I have read many dozens of articles and books and interviewed scientists here and abroad, my thinking on the issue has changed. Planting trees may be the single most important ecotechnology that we have to put the broken pieces of our planet back together.

From birth my tongue has had a fire for communication with trees and dirt and water

Only God can make a tree and She seldom tries, nowadays.)

Over the ten years since she'd been born, the trees of Briary Swamp, West Virginia, had peered through May's window night after night. They had watched over her thoughtful brown eyes, the imaginative crook of her head, the strong character of her knobby knees. The trees had laughed at the jokes May told her cat. Their leaves had whispered over her wild inventions, her colorful stories, her drawings.

A breeze wafted through the trees and settled like a fog. It did't smell like peaches at all. It smelled, strangely, like cinnamon and cayenne pepper. It smelled like far away.

The only thing Birdie was ever interested in was home. There was nothing Birdie loved more than to curl up in her window seat and watch the orchard. She knew what animals burrowed where, and what flowers bloomed when, and what trees produced the best fruit. She listened to the farm's rhythms through the screen like the beat of the heart of someone she loved.

Before the spring arrives there are such days: Under the thick snow cover rests the lawn, The dry-and-jolly trees are making noise, Tender and strong, the wind is warm. And body is amazed at its own lightness, And your own home is alien to you, And song that had just previously been tiring With worry you are singing just like new.

My troubles are all over, and I am at home; and often before I am quite awake, I fancy I am still in the orchard at Birtwick, standing with my old friends under the apple trees.

The first place that I can well remember, was a large pleasant meadow with a pond of clear water in it. Some shady trees leaned over it, and rushes and water-lilies grew at the deep end. Over the hedge on one side we looked into a plowed field, and on the other we looked over a gate at our master's house, which stood by the roadside;

Below birds crossing the lake of the sky and purple martins on power lines, down to the trees and one thing my brother said that stays with me from Long Island to Vermont, something about trees being conductors of spirit ...

Trees, for example, carry the memory of rainfall. In their rings we read ancient weather—storms, sunlight, and temperatures, the growing seasons of centuries. A forest shares a history, which each tree remembers even after it has been felled.

bathed in the thick honey gold of the sun through encircling trees only just beginning to turn the muted metal colors of fall.

The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.

At night the bats will beat on the trees, knowing it all, seeing what they sensed all day....

The trees were not Aletheia's gift to the wizards for their service, not living monuments to great men and women. They were monuments of a desperate act, necessitated because of foolishness and greed. The trees were not the wizards' respite. They were their sacrifice.

Soon there were grown-ups scattered all across the grass. In the dark, they looked like laundry. "Now," said Bean in a loud voice. "Look up into the sky. Smell how nice the grass is. Listen to the trees. And just rest. Don't talk. Don't do anything. And don't worry. You're totally safe.

Tenir. Faire comme d'habitude. J'ai traité, pendant deux heures au téléphone, les problèmes de traduction anglaise de Une femme. Puis Leclerc. Le ciel bleu, les arbres ensoleillés, le froid, comme l'année dernière, les mardis de novembre.

O Dionysus, we feel you near, stirring like molten lava under the ravaged earth, flowing from the wounds of your trees in tears of sap, screaming with the rage of your hunted beasts.

Now for the first time he was far from shore, submerged among deep waters, below wind and tide, where huge trees raised their spongy flowers and monstrous things without fur or feather, wing or foot, passed silently, in submarine twilight. A lush place.

It was a grey day, that least fleshly of all weathers; a day of dreams and far hopes and clear visions. It was a day easily associated with those abstract truths and purities that dissolve in the sunshine or fade out in mocking laughter by the light of the moon. The trees and clouds were carved in classical severity; the sounds of the countryside had harmonized to a monotone, metallic as a trumpet, breathless as the Grecian urn.

The great tapestries of trees had darkened to ghosts back at the last edge of twilight. The early moon had drenched the arches with pale blue, and, weaving over the night, in and out of the gossamer rifts of moon, swept a song, a song with more than a hint of sadness, infinitely transient, infinitely regretful.

Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby's house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.

As the still ocean paths before the shark in starred and glittering waterways, beauty-high, the moon-swathed trees divided, pair on pair, while flapping nightbirds cried across the air.

And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grown in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.