Quotes About Nature

I hear the bravuras of birds...the bustle of growing wheat...gossip of flames...clack of sticks cooking my meals.

You Lingering Sparse Leaves of Me" You lingering sparse leaves of me on winter-nearing boughs, And I some well-shorn tree of field or orchard-row; You tokens diminute and lorn—(not now the flush of May, or July clover-bloom—no grain of August now;) You pallid banner-staves—you pennants valueless—you overstay'd of time, Yet my soul-dearest leaves confirming all the rest, The faithfulest—hardiest—last.

The new society at last, proportionate to Nature, In man of you, more than your mountain peaks or stalwart trees imperial, In woman more, far more, than all your gold or vines, or even vital air. Fresh come, to a new world indeed, yet long prepared, I see the genius of the modern, child of the real and ideal, Clearing the ground for broad humanity, the true America, heir of the past so grand, To build a grander future.

And as to you corpse I think you are good manure, but that does not offend me, I smell the white roses sweetscented and growing, I reach to the leafy lips . . . . I reach to the polished breasts of melons.

I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease . . . observing a spear of summer grass.

I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars, And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren, And the tree-toad is a chef-d'oeuvre for the highest, And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven, And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery, And the cow crunching with depress'd head surpasses any statue, And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles. You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good health to you nevertheless, And filter and fibre your blood. Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you.

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat, Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best, Only the lull I like, the hum of your valvèd voice.

Amint elnéztem a szántogató földmívest, Vagy a magot szóró magvetÅ't a mezÅ'n, vagy az aratót, amint arat, Megláttam, ó élet és halál, hasonlatosságaidat; (Az élet, az élet a földmívelés, a halál pedig az aratás.)

Mások dicsérhetik, ami jólesik nekik; De én, a rohanó Missouri partjairól semmit sem dicsérek a m?vészetben vagy bármi másban, Amíg az nem szívta magába jól e folyó levegÅ'jét, a nyugati préri-illatot, És amíg mindezt ki nem leheli ismét.

MidÅ'n az orgona utólszor virult házunk elÅ'tt a kertben, S a nagy csillag korán lehanyatlott a nyugati égrÅ'l az éjbe, Gyászoltam, és mindig gyászolok én, amint a tavasz visszatér. Ó, örökkön visszatérÅ' tavasz! Te elhozod nékem e hármast: A minden évben kivirágzó orgonát, a lehanyatló csillagot nyugaton, És emlékét annak, kit szeretek.

Proud music of the sea-storm! Blast that careers so free, whistling across the prairies! Strong hum of forest tree-tops! wind of the mountains! Personified dim shapes! you hidden orchestras! You serenades of phantoms, with instruments alert, Blending, with Nature's rhythmus, all the tongues of nations; You chords left as by vast composers! you choruses!

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Let me sing to you now, about how people turn into other things from Leaves of Grass

Én vagyok az, akinek fáj a szerelmes szerelem; Vonz a föld? Nem fájva vonz-e minden anyag minden anyagot? Az én testem is így van mindennel, ami útjába kerül, vagy amit megismer.

I lean and loafe at my ease...observing a spear of summer grass.

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,)

Were you thinking that those were the words, those upright lines? those curves, angles, dots? No, those are not the words, the substantial words are in the ground and sea, They are in the air, they are in you.

Stop this day and night with me, and you shall possess the origin of all poems

Easter will soon be here. Life breaks into beauty again and we realize that man may bring hell itself into the world, but that Nature ever patiently waits to be his natural paradise.

Walt Whitman, an American, one of the roughs, a kosmos, / Disorderly fleshy and sensual....eating drinking and breeding, / No sentimentalist....no stander above men and women or apart / from them....no more modest than immodest.

Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd the earth much? Have you practis'd so long to learn to read? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

After you have exhausted what there is in business, politics, conviviality, and so on - have found that none of these finally satisfy, or permanently wear - what remains? Nature remains. (As quoted by Richard Powers in The Echo Maker)

The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.