Quotes About Nature

Fire, water, and government know nothing of mercy.

I wish I were a glow worm, A glow worm's never glum. 'Cuz how can you be grumpy When the sun shines out your bum?

A bad day of fishing is better than a good day of work.

The charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of what is elusive but obtainable, a perpetual series of occasions for hope.

Gone fishin' — Be back at dark-thirty!

Enjoy thy stream, then, harmless fish; And, when an angler, for his dish, Through gluttony — vile sin! Attempts, a wretch! to pull thee out, Heaven give the strength, O, gentle trout, TO PULL THE RASCAL IN !

Three-fourths of the Earth's surface is water, and one-fourth is land. It is quite clear that the good Lord intended us to spend triple the amount of time fishing as taking care of the lawn.

If you kill one fly, ten more will come to its funeral.

Flowers and fruits are always fit presents; flowers because they are a proud assertion that a ray of beauty outvalues all the utilities of the world.... these delicate flowers look like the frolic and interference of love and beauty.

Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers, where I can walk undisturbed...

The lovely flowers embarrass me, They make me regret I am not a bee –

With daffodils mad footnotes for the spring, And asters purple asterisks for autumn...

But I insist that hollyhocks were brought to New England for the same reason they were taken to Old England, for the sake of beauty, for the satisfaction of seeing those crinkled silken petals spread their color in midsummer.

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance...

Have you blossoms and books, those solaces of sorrow?

That a pansy is transitive, is its only pang.

The stem of a departed flower Has still a silent rank, The bearer from an emerald court Of a despatch of pink.

You can see the goldenrod, that most tenacious and pernicious and beauteous of all New England flora, bowing away from the wind like a great and silent congregation.

The flower that follows the sun does so even in cloudy days.

You smell the lilac and there comes flooding back the memories of the days when you first knew lilacs and carried them about as if they were the queen-flower of the world.

Flowers rewrite soil, water, and sunshine into petal'd poetry.

Watching the iris, The faint and fragile petals — How am I worthy?

I long for flowers that bend with the wind and rain...

To the Dandelion... My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee...