Quotes About Nature

I am the seasons, I think sometimes, January, May, November; the mud, the mist, the dawn. I cannot be tossed about, or float gently, or mix with other people. —Virginia Woolf, The Waves (Harvest Books, January 1, 1978) Originally published October 1931.

Should I seek out some tree? Should I desert these form rooms and libraries, and the broad yellow page in which I read Catullus, for woods and fields? Should I walk under beech trees, or saunter along the river bank, where the trees meet united like lovers in the water? But nature is too vegetable, too vapid. She has only sublimities and vastitudes and water and leaves. I begin to wish for firelight, privacy, and the limbs of one person.

Nothing should be named lest by doing so we change it. Let it exist, this bank, this beauty, and I, for one instant, steeped in pleasure.

It seemed a mere toss-up whether she said, 'I love you, or whether she said, 'I love the beech-trees,' or only 'I love--I love.

I raged, and woke to hear the rain.

O verde na natureza é uma coisa, o verde na literatura é outra. A natureza e as letras parecem ter uma antipatia visceral; junte as duas, e se estraçalham mutuamente.

the grass still a soft deep green, the house starred in its greenery with purple passion flowers, and rooks dropping cool cries from the high blue. But something moved, flashed, turned a silver wing in the air.

He loved, beneath all this summer transiency, to feel the earth's spine beneath him; for such he took the hard root of the oak tree to be.

Prima del risveglio, le voci degli uccelli e il rumore delle ruote si intonano e producono una strana armonia, che cresce e cresce, e chi dorme si sente spinto verso le rive della vita, così si sentì lui, tirato verso la vita, col sole che diventava sempre più caldo, le grida sempre più forti; qualcosa di tremendo stava per accadere.

y se vio a sí misma saliendo hacia la fiesta, y al pensar en este aspecto de la naturaleza humana, con su paciencia y su capacidad de sufrimiento y de encontrar satisfacción en placeres tan nimios, exiguos y sórdidos, se le llenaron los ojos de lágrimas.

Non aveva voglia di morire. La era bella. Il sole caldo. E gli esseri umani?

acolo, de-a curmeziÈ™ul golfului È™i printre dune, z?cea prietenia lui, p?strîndu-È™i întreaga vitalitate È™i realitate, asemenea cadavrului unui tîn?r care ar fi r?mas îngropat un secol în turb?, conservîndu-È™i roÈ™eaÈ›a proasp?t? a buzelor.

Quién no piensa en el pasado en un jardín con hombres y mujeres tumbados bajo los árboles? ¿Acaso estos hombres y mujeres, estos fantasmas tumbados bajo los árboles, no son nuestro pasado, todo lo que queda de él..., nuestra felicidad, nuestra realidad?

Were there not trees and grass? he asked. Were these not the signals of freedom? Had he not always leapt forward directly Miss Mitford started on her walk? Why was he a prisoner here? He paused. Here, he observed, the flowers were massed far more thickly than at home; they stood, plant by plant, rigidly in narrow plots.

Uno de ellos cantaba bajo la ventana del dormitorio; otro posado en la rama mas alta de las lilas; un tercero sobre el reborde del muro. Todos cantaban con una voz estridente, apasionada, vehemente, que parecía que iba a hacerles estallar el corazón, sin cuidarse de la áspera disonancia producida con el canto del pájaro vecino.

As a plant on the river-bed feels the shock of a passing oar and shivers: so she rocked: so she shivered.

En cualquier caso, parecía todo luz, resplandeciente, como un pájaro o un etéreo plumón que hubiera entrado con un soplo de viento y se hubiese posado un instante en una zarza.

I have found my mate,' she murmured. 'It is the moor. I am nature's bride.

The solitary traveller, haunter of lanes, disturber of ferns, and devastator of great hemlock plants, looking up, suddenly sees the giant figure at the end of the ride.

Stepping through fields of flowers and taking to her brest buds that had broken and lambs that had fallen; with the stars in her eyes and wind in her hair– he took her bag.

The greatest religion is to be true to your own nature. Have faith in yourselves.

I shall be dumped where the weed decays, And the rest is rust and stardust

Literature and butterflies are the two sweetest passions known to man.

I was the shadow of the waxwing slain By the false azure in the windowpane; I was the smudge of ashen fluff -and I Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky. And from the inside, too, I'd duplicate Myself, my lamp, an apple on a plate: Uncurtaining the night, I'd let dark glass Hang all the furniture above the grass, And how delightful when a fall of snow Covered my glimpse of lawn and reached up so As to make chair and bed exactly stand Upon that snow, out in that crystal land!