Quotes About Nature

October is a mighty month...

My favorite color is October.

October's Autumn casts a gentle light and a calm serenity before the stark barrenness of Winter is born to November

Ah, September! You are the doorway to the season that awakens my soul... but I must confess that I love you only because you are a prelude to my beloved October.

Solitary converse with nature; for thence are ejaculated sweet and dreadful words never uttered in libraries. Ah! the spring days, the summer dawns, the October woods!

There are worlds in an opal.

Mother Nature is wonderful. Children get too old for piggy-back rides just about the same time they get too heavy for them.

Leave this military hurry and adopt the pace of Nature. Her secret is patience.

You can't exist with nature without patience because everything in nature happens with such an easy, flowing manner. You get out of step, and you miss it. It's gone.

Little Mary was visiting her grandmother in the country. Walking in the garden, she chanced to see a peacock, a bird she had never seen before. After gazing in silent admiration, she ran quickly into the house and cried out: "Oh, Granny, come and see! One of your chickens is in bloom."

We are so attuned to rhythms, to night and day, to fall, winter, spring and summer, year in and year out; to childhood, maturity, and old age; to the very beat of our hearts. Women, in particular, feel the ebb and flow of vigor every month of their reproductive years.

Why periods? Why can't Mother Nature just send a text message: "What'z up, Girl? You ain't pregnant. Have a great week! Talk next month."

PHOTOGRAPH, n. A picture painted by the sun without instruction in art.

In our own glad and fortunate country the seasons are known by their respective dominant pies — for each there is an appropriate pie, with apple pie for all the year round... The perfect days of June welcome the lip-painting berry pies... Then, as nature paints the forests with her magic brush, comes in the golden glory of the year, the royal pumpkin pie!

Poets smoke nature and beauty and angst and exhale swirling plumes of poetry.

A poet can translate birdsong much more faithfully than the biologist ever could.

And the poet out-argues Nature.

The gaze of nature, when thus awakened, dreams and pulls the poet after its dream. Words, too, can have an aura of their own.

To thee Come I, a poet, hereward haply blown, From out another worldflower lately flown. Wilt ask, What profit e'er a poet brings? He beareth starry stuff about his wings...

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!

When winter gets deep into languishing hearts, poetry promises spring.

...the swirling autumn leaves of a poet's dying words...

A poet is the mocking-bird of the spiritual universe. In him are collected all the individual songs of all individual natures.

poetry leafs out like trees words rustle in the breeze punctuate — birds & bees