Quotes About Nature

I was surrounded by life and beauty. My soul was content, and my life felt full.

And there's no getting around the fact that all life lives at the expense of another life.

Real life is happening outside and not in front of a computer.

And honored among foxes and pheasants by the gay houseUnder the new-made clouds and happy as the heart was long,In the sun born over and over,I ran my heedless ways.

And the sabbath rang slowlyIn the pebbles of the holy streams.

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughsAbout the lilting house and happy as the grass was green.

We are not wholly bad or good, who live our lives under Milk Wood.

Me, Polly Garter, under the washing line, giving the breast in the garden to my bonny new baby. Nothing grows in our garden, only washing. And babies. And where's their fathers live, my love? Over the hills and far away. You're looking up at me now. I know what you're thinking, you poor little milky creature. You're thinking, you're no better than you should be, Polly, and that's good enough for me. Oh, isn't life a terrible thing, thank God?

Nothing grows in our garden, only washing. And babies.

The crisp path through the field in this December snow, in the deep dark, where we trod the buried grass like ghosts on dry toast.

the sloeback, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat bobbing sea

A worm tells summer better than the clock, The slug's a living calendar of days; What shall it tell me if a timeless insect Says the world wears away?

Teach me the love that is evergreen after the fall leaved/Grave

My birthday began with the water- Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name Above the farms and the white horses And I rose In rainy autumn And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.

Thousands of miles,' I said. It's Rhosilli, USA. We're going to camp on a bit of rock that wobbles in the winds.

Our snow was not only shaken from whitewash buckets down the sky, it came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow grew overnight on the roofs of houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely white-ivied the walls and settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunderstorm of white, torn Christmas cards.

Goodbye, good luck, struck the sun & the moon To the fisherman lost on the land He stands alone at the door of his home, With his long-legged heart in his hand.

My birthday began with the water - Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name.

We are like monkeys who dwell in the forest and shit on the very branches from which we hang.

In the landscapes we love, our weaknesses take on another aspect.

I've been going for walks.  Shore of the sea, accompanied by the most somber thoughts. And if I throw myself from the top of a cliff?

As I said, either friends or the country, some . . . either some very dear person or some very dear place seems necessary to relieve life's daily grey, and to show that it is grey. If possible, one should have both.

Nature, with all her cruelty, comes nearer to us than do these crowds of men.

All we need is a meteorologist who has once been soaked to the skin without ill effect. No one can write knowingly of the weather who walks bent over on wet days.†