Quotes About Trees

I miss it if I'm not in it for any length of time; I don't feel comfortable. I want trees and I want frequent rain.

white marble bridges with dragons sleeping on the end-posts; paved courtyards replete with trees, each strung with twinkling silk lanterns in lieu of fruit; courtiers clothed in a myriad of jewel tones.

You don't have a soul, so you can't be baptized. All animals are like that. I think it's unfair and sometimes I don't believe it. After all, what would heaven be without birds or dogs or horses? And what about trees and flowers? They don't have souls either. Does that mean heaven looks like a cement parking lot? I suppose this is what the nuns call a theological problem.

This old world keeps spinnin' round; It's a wonder tall trees ain't layin' down.

A search engine often draws our attention to a particular snippet of text, a few words or sentences that have strong relevance to whatever we're searching for at the moment, while providing little incentive for taking in the work as a whole. We don't see the forest when we search the Web. We don't even see the trees. We see twigs and leaves.

Trees are contrivances for lofting bacteria skyward to give them a clear view of a yellow dwarf.

Beeches were rare north of the Humber, and she loved the way they whispered in the wind, like women before they fell asleep.

As I moved past the big houses shrouded by dripping trees I fought the urge to look over my shoulder. Looking back would frighten her. I told myself there was nothing unusual about a woman walking the streets at midnight-I did it-but my hindbrain was stirring.

You have MS. But you're fit now, as long as you stay cool, and maybe you'll be able to do stunt work for years. You also leap to conclusions without thinking, you give everything, even trees, their own name, you get weird and don't talk when you should." I looked at the oddly bald little bottle in her hand. "And you steal my beer.

Forest Fires: the Fractal Boundary Imagine a plantation of evenly spaced trees on a very hot, dry day. As the temperature soars, the odd leaf or twig ignites, sending a whole tree up in flames. This is an essentially random process – the factors involved are beyond our powers of prediction. But once a tree is in flames, the fire easily spreads to neighbouring trees, and this process can now be modelled with iterative techniques.

No sooner had the town dropped back than all sort of stuff and nonsense, as is usual with us, began scrawling itself along both sides of the road: tussocks, fir trees, low skimpy stands of young pines, charred trunks of old ones, wild heather, and similar gibberish.

I would like to give them a grove of oak trees, I said. Trees are better than stone- life commemorating life.

The world is full of painful stories. Sometimes it seems as though there aren't any other kind and yet I found myself thinking how beautiful that glint of water was through the trees.

She Was Just A Sketch a thin girl under a thick sky so thin, each rib stood for something something to which this great tenderness, a mere irrational love toward certain flowers and trees, could attach —Olena Kalytiak Davis, from "Welcome to Lascaux," And Her Soul Out of Nothing (University of Wisconsin Press, 1997)

The hidden secret of fall: the leaves don't actually "turn" colors. With the winter season coming, and the process of photosynthesis being without the key ingredients of warmth and sunshine, trees begin to break down chlorophyll. With the "green" gone, the other colors that have been there all along — the magical reds, golds, and oranges — begin to express themselves.

Seeing the moonlight Spilling down Through these trees, My heart fills to the brim With autumn.

I thought it would be quieter here." [Anna] hadn't meant to say anything, but the noise startled her. "The wind in the trees," Bran said. "And there are some birds that stay year-round. Sometimes when the wind is still and the cold is upon us, the quiet is so deep you can feel it in your bones.

There was in the meeting-house a wood quiet. It was the quiet of trees that have been brought in out of the wind, whose new-shown limbs reach out, not to the sky but to the people. This is the quiet, still, otherness of trees found by the carver, the shaper, the maker.

But most often this was how she remembered it: gray and forbidding, with sharp-edged boulders covered by patches of snow and trees the color of lead against dank clouds that drifted like smoke through the mountains.

Twenty minutes into our walk away from the wall put us deep in a forest of fir, pine, cottonwood, and aspen trees. The lush forest floor was alive and danced with shadows cast from an endless parade of swaying trees. As we approached early evening it was cool and peaceful. The sound of the trees moving in the wind high above seemed like a friendly traveling companion, calling us farther and farther into the depths of the forest.

In the morning light, I remembered how much I loved the sound of wind through the trees. I laid back and closed my eyes, and I was comforted by the sound of a million tiny leaves dancing on a summer morning.

There was a small park across from the hospital with paths among the trees. As Conor and his father walked through it toward an empty bench, they kept passing patients in hospital gowns, walking with families or out on their own sneaking cigarettes. It made the park feel like an outdoor hospital room. Or a place where ghosts went to have a break.

IT WAS ONE OF those perfect autumn days so common in stories and so rare in the real world. The weather was warm and dry, ideal for ripening a field of wheat or corn. On both sides of the road the trees were changing color. Tall poplars had gone a buttery yellow while the shrubby sumac encroaching on the road was tinged a violent red. Only the old oaks seemed reluctant to give up the summer, and their leaves remained an even mingling of gold and green.

We will speak for the books." ... "Like the Lorax?" "The Lorax speaks for the trees," I remind her. "Books are made out of paper. Paper is made out of trees." "What about e-books?" "We can speak for them too." "Audiobooks?" "Audiobooks speak for themselves." She grins. "Get it?