Quotes About Nature

People of limited intelligence are fond of talking about "these days," imagining that they have discovered and appraised the peculiarities of "these days" and that human nature changes with the times.

Rest, nature, books, music…such is my idea of happiness.

A man's every action is inevitably conditioned by what surrounds him and by his own body.

These loaves, pigeons, and two little boys seemed unearthly. It all happened at the same time: a little boy ran over to a pigeon, glancing over at Levin with a smile; the pigeon flapped its wings and fluttered, gleaming in the sunshine among the snowdust quivering in the air, while the smell of freshly baked bread was wafted out of a little window as the loaves were put out. All this together was so extraordinarily wonderful that Levin burst out laughing and crying for joy.

All were happy -- plants, birds, insects and children. But grown-up people -- adult men and women -- never left off cheating and tormenting themselves and one another. It was not this spring morning which they considered sacred and important, not the beauty of God's world, given to all creatures to enjoy -- a beauty which inclines the heart to peace, to harmony and to love.

earthen berm that ran next to the nearest set of tracks.

Kit in the bough of the tree.

My idea of heaven is to be hunting with you in some beautiful park with mountains like here at home but where we won't need guns or prey but we will just walk together arm in arm in this good world and be by ourselves always together forever and a day.

The problem was that our focused, obsessive drive to conquer nature and make ourselves more comfortable had left the natural systems of the planet polluted and on the verge of collapse. We

Planinski vrhunci su posebna mjesta koja mogu dati energiju svakome tko boravi na njima.

that horrible acts are caused, in part, by our very tendency to assume that some people are naturally evil.

He realized that it wouldn't be much longer before the trees picked themselves up and migrated to the warmer south, leaving their dead, leafless brothers behind.

Before Man made us citizens, great Nature made us men.

There was no beauty of the wood or field But she its fragrant bosom-secret knew, Nor any but to her would freely yield Some grace that in her soul took root and grew; Nature to her shone as but now revealed, All rosy-fresh with innocent morning dew, And looked into her heart with dim, sweet eyes That left it full of sylvan memories.

There never yet was flower fair in vain.

We aren't angels. Angels couldn't breathe the air down here. They'd die.

The summer has ended. The garden withers. The mornings become chill. I am thirty, I am thirty-four–the years turn dry as leaves.

Summer mornings, the light of the world pouring in and the silence. It was a barefoot life, the cool of the night on the floorboards, the green trees if you stepped outside, the first faint cries of the birds. He arrived in a suit and didn't put it on again until he went back to the city.

There was a time, usually late in August, when summer struck the trees with dazzling power and they were rich with leaves but then became, suddenly one day, strangely still, as if in expectation and at that moment aware. They knew. Everything knew, the beetles, the frogs, the crows solemnly walking across the lawn. The sun was at its zenith and embraced the world, but it was ending, all that one loved was at risk.

Death was coming for Harry Mies. He would lie emptied, his cheeks rouged, the fine, old man's ears unhearing. There was no telling the things he knew. He was alone in the far fields of his life. The rain fell on him, he did not move. p. 132

She preferred to lie up by the dunes with the waves bursting, to listen while they crashed like the final chords of a symphony except they went on and on. There was nothing as fine as that.

There was something life-giving about the sea, as if it were the pulse of God keeping the world alive.

A poem is a revelation, and it is by the brink of running water that poetry is revealed to the mind.

Why do you live on the bank of a river?' was one of these questions. 'Because a poem in a revelation, and it is by the brink of running water that poetry is revealed to the mind.