Quotes About Pollen

Georgia has some really tough allergies.

Mendel's last forays into botany included the satisfying demonstration that even the greatest living scientists could be wrong. Armed with a fine paintbrush and a microscope, the poor-sighted abbot proved that a single grain of pollen was enough to fertilise an ovum – something that Charles Darwin had insisted was impossible.

image. It made masturbation mass murder. Pollen, which blew about in spring in quantities great enough to fur a pond in a coat of yellow, was an even larger, if less heart-wrenching, waste of life. While Nature was obviously prodigal of youth—in early eighteenth-century London, almost half the children died before their second birthday—this level of carnage was hard to accept.

A recent study of pollen and animal remains on Easter Island concluded that it wasn't humans who deforested the landscape; rather, it was the rats that came along for the ride and then bred unchecked. The native palms couldn't produce seeds fast enough to keep up with their appetites.)

As any hay-fever sufferer will notice (with a sure degree of horror), ragweed produces so much pollen that it often can be seen leaving the plants in clouds.

CHAPTER 10 Bright flowers nodded around the apprentice as she weaved, slender as a pine martin, through the grass. She sneezed as pollen dusted her soft muzzle. Then, relishing the sun on her back, she lifted her forepaws and peered over the curving stems. Wide-eyed, she gazed at the broad green pasture and breathed the soft scent of the shimmering grass.

We did an hour of practice, at the end of which I was capable of flinging a fireball down the range at the dizzying speed of a bumblebee who'd met his pollen quota and was taking a moment to enjoy the view.

I have allergies, and I've had my share of nosebleeds, but that's usually related to pollen.

That sort of news travels faster than horses, faster than boats. The messengers of the gods carry rumors through the sky the way bees carry pollen and drop them from their wings onto the earth below.

Youth is the pollen That blows through the sky And does not ask why.

We have domesticated crops over a very long period of time, like tens of thousands of years. And crops get - seeds get carried. Sometimes, if they're very small seeds, they get scattered off trucks. Pollen travels.

The floating pollen seemed to be his notes made visible, and the dampness of the garden the weeping of the garden's sensibility.

A voluntary act to fill empty hours had become intensive labor streaked with the bad feelings that ride the skin like pollen when too much about one's neighbors is known.

May, there I was, knee deep in weeds—including some hay fever–inducing goldenrod

Gradually the magic of the island settled over us as gently and clingingly as pollen. Each day had a tranquillity, a timelessness, about it, so that you wished it would never end. But then the dark skin of night would peel off and there would be a fresh day waiting for us, glossy and colourful as a child's transfer and with the same tinge of unreality.

Gradually the magic of the island [Corfu] settled over us as gently and clingingly as pollen.

She tastes like nectar and salt. Nectar and salt and apples. Pollen and stars and hinges. She tastes like fairy tales. Swan maiden at midnight. Cream on the tip of a fox's tongue. She tastes like hope.

She tasted of hope. Oh. What does that taste like? Pollen and stars, the Fallen said.

The presence of phantoms – everywhere – their faces, ripe with need and unspent passion, trailing their hunger like pollen from flowers that were past their hour but refused to wither and disappear.

Running in the wind, in the pollen and dust, a flower in flight

The soul is like pollen: we remember it. (L'âme est comme le pollen : - Elle fait souvenir d'elle.)

Nathless I'll drive me to thy deepest sweet, Yea, richlier shall that pain the pollen beat From me to thee, for oft these pollens be Fine dust from wars that poets wage for thee. But, O beloved Earthbloom soft a-shine Upon the universal Jessamine... Yield, yield the heartsome honey love to me Hid in thy nectary!

The pollen-dusted bees Search for the honey-lees That linger in the last flowers of September, While plaintive mourning doves Coo sadly to their loves Of the dead summer they so well remember.

It was one of those yearning and gentle days of late spring, suddenly warm, when the air turns greenish yellow, so thick is it with pollen and bloom.