Quotes About Nature

This is the problem with living by instinct. I don't think.

Faerie runs on debt, on promises and obligations. Having grown up here, I understand what she's offering—a gift, a boon, instead of an apology.

The walls shimmer with mica, and the ceiling is all branches and green vines. In the antechamber, the shell of an enormous snail glows, a lamp the size of a small table.

Oak liking me is as silly as the sun liking a storm, but that doesn't stop my desire for it. Me, with my sharp teeth and chilly skin. It's absurd. It's grotesque.

They were lying on a bed of soft moss at the edge of The Crooked Forest. He could hear waves crashing along the shore. She was sprawled out in a robe of silver, her hair spread beneath her like a tide pool.

Her hair falls loose in a cascade of black curls, caught in a crown of magenta bougainvillea.

And no matter how eager you are for it, you cannot make the moon set nor rise any faster

However secretive his nature, however foolish his reasons for loving his father, I like that he does.

I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful When rain bends down the bough; And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted Than you are now. —SARA TEASDALE, "I SHALL NOT CARE

Queen Annet sits on a throne covered in powdery white moths, each one fluttering its wings a little, giving the whole thing the effect of a moving carpet.

I am in a gown of deep forest green with crow feathers covering the shoulders and sleeves, while Cardan wears a doublet ornamented with bright beetle wings.

Clouds of mosquitoes and gnats blow through the hot, wet air of the marsh where the Thistlewitch lives. My boots sink into the gluey mud. The trees are draped heavily in creeper and poisonous trumpet vine, swaths of it blocking the path. In the brown water, things move.

The braided weeds and briars of her hair fall around her, serving as a cape. Large black eyes peer out from the tangle. She wears a gown of drab cloth and bark. When she moves, I see her feet are bare. Rings shine on several of her toes.

Behind the abandoned house, two faerie horses chew on dandelions as they wait for their riders. Slight as deer, with a soft halo of light surrounding their bodies, they glide between the trees like ghosts. Oak goes to the first. Her coat a soft grey, her mane braided into something that looks like netting, and which is hung with gold beads. Tooled leather saddlebags rest against her flanks. She nuzzles into his hand.

Her eyes are the bright blue of chipped beach glass.

She did not need anyone else's love when she had roses.

it struck her that that perhaps everyone had the ability to see themselves in others. Even in the rocks. Even in the roses.

Destroying species is like tearing pages out of an unread book, written in a language humans hardly know how to read, about the place where they live.

There are no compacts between lions and men, and wolves and lambs have no concord.

Rosy-fingered dawn appeared, the early-born.

Ocean, who is the source of all.

Nothing feebler does earth nurture than man, Of all things breathing and moving.

Far away in the mountains a shepherd hears their [the warriors'] thundering.

Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men. Now the wind scatters the old leaves across the earth, now the living timber bursts with the new buds and spring comes round again. And so with men: as one generation comes to life, another dies away.