Quotes About Nature

Nature fits all her children with something to do, he who would write and can't write, can surely review.

There is no good arguing with the inevitable. The only argument available with an east wind is to put on your overcoat.

A weed is no more than a flower in disguise.

Even as the roots, shut in the darksome earth, Share in the tree top's joyance, and conceive Of sunshine and wide air and winged things, By sympathy of nature, so do I

Things of the world try to connect. Prodigal rain issues from a sky into which trees rise like pleading hands. Days bear us lightly across the face of the world as every year the ground pulls harder, recalling like a spurned lover, ever more fixedly, how much it wants us.

Why is it so difficult to assemble those things that really matter in life and to dwell among them only? I am referring to certain landscapes, persons, beasts, books, rooms, meteorological conditions, fruits.

I wish i could press snowflakes in a book like flowers.

A nothing day full of wild beauty .... Little fish stream by, a river in water.

A great deal was riding on this argument for Twain, for if the man from Stratford had indeed written the plays, Twain's mostly deeply held beliefs about the nature of fiction and on how major writers drew on personal experience would be wrong.

Lightning does not come from underground

Or where the Northern ocean, in vast whirls,Boils round the naked melancholy islesOf farthest Thulè, and th' Atlantic surgePours in among the stormy Hebrides.

Come, gentle Spring! ethereal mildness, come.

See, Winter comes to rule the varied year,Sullen and sad.

But who can paint like Nature? Can imagination boast, amid its gay creation, hues like hers?

Crown'd with the sickle, and the wheaten sheaf,While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain,Comes jovial on.

Peace is the happy natural state of man war is corruption and disgrace.

I know no subject more elevating, more amazing, more ready to the poetical enthusiasm, the philosophical reflection, and the moral sentiment than the works of nature. Where can we meet such variety, such beauty, such magnificence?

Humor is a serious thing. I like to think of it as one of our greatest earliest natural resources, which must be preserved at all cost.

The wit makes fun of other persons; the satirist makes fun of the world; the humorist makes fun of himself, but in so doing, he identifies himself with people – that is, people everywhere, not for the purpose of taking them apart, but simply revealing their true nature.

Time is for dragonflies and angels. The former live too little and the latter live too long.

We had so many happy days in the country that fall that from this vantage they merge into a sweet and indistinct blur. Around Halloween the last, stubborn wildflowers died away and the wind became sharp and gusty, blowing sbowers of yellow leaves on the gray, wrinkled surface of the lake. On those chill afternoons when the sky was like lead and the clouds were racing, we stayed in the library, banking huge fires to keep warm. Bare willows clicked on the windowpanes like skeleton fingers.

good-natured groom on

living things don't last—it's all temporary. Death in life. That's why they're called natures mortes. Maybe you don't see it at first with all the beauty and bloom, the little speck of rot. But if you look closer—there it is.

they grew dark and foamy in the cool.