Quotes About Nature

Such is life; and we are but as grass that is cut down, and put into the oven and baked. To

We said we could not expect to have it all sunshine, nor should we wish it.  We told each other that Nature was beautiful, even in her tears.

Remammo tutto quel giorno sotto la pioggia, e fu una fatica melanconica. Facemmo le viste, in principio, di divertirci un mondo. Dicemmo ch'era un diversivo, e che ci piaceva vedere il fiume sotto tutti i suoi diversi aspetti. Non potevamo aspettarci d'aver sempre sole, né l'avremmo voluto. E poi la natura era bella anche quando piangeva.

Strange that Nature's voices all around them — the soft singing of the waters, the whisperings of the river grass, the music of the rushing wind — should not have taught them a truer meaning of life than this. They listened there, through the long days, in silence, waiting for a voice from heaven; and all day long and through the solemn night it spoke to them in myriad tones, and they heard it not.

Victoria and Albert speedily assented. In Stockmar's undertaking to "strengthen the good [and] subdue … the evil dispositions of our Nature," Vicky would come through relatively psychologically intact. Her brother Bertie would not be so fortunate.

If the thunder don't get ya then the lightning will.

A leaf of all colors plays a golden-string fiddle To a double-e waterfall over my back

If you're a surfer, you just want to surf. You don't know if anyone's going to see you, and you don't really care if they see you. You just live for that feeling.

Many girls have been romanced under the moon, and I don't mean to say moonlight is overrated, but few I think have known the magic of a sunrise kiss.

Today the mockingbird does not sound very happy. It sounds if it is coming apart. As of the very heart of itself-its song-is breaking into pieces and flying off in a hundred directions.

The echo of her laughter is the second sunrise I awaken to each day, and at night I feel it is more than the stars looking down on me.

I think of the flower in the bud: huddled, compressed, dark. Yet somehow it feels the night, knows moon from sun. It waits...waits.

Ironic, Betty Lou said at last. The cereus insists on sunlight---that's why it must be at the end of the yard. And yet it saves its flowers for the moon. The sun never sees what it fathers. It takes from the day, I said, gives to the night.

Amanda took the torn page from Maniac. To her, it was the broken wing of a bird, a pet out in the rain.

So, I said, when does the enchantment start? We were sitting side by side, facing the mountains. It started when the earth was born. Her eyes were closed. Her face was golden in the setting sun. It never stops. It is, always. It's just here.

I'm looking over a four-leaf clover that I overlooked before.

The sounds of extinct birds may be preserved in the songs of mockingbirds

I have to tell you I love living in a world without clocks. The shackles are gone. I'm a puppy unleashed in a meadow of time. As I watched the sun come up this morning, I felt a new sense of kinship with it. Something primitive stirred inside me, something that remembers the rising sun by itself, before there were minutes and schedules and calendars, before there were even words like morning.

The pure whiteness, dazzling in the sun, was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. Who was I to spoil it? Snow falls. Earth says: Here's a gift for you. And what do we do? We shovel it. Blow it. Scrape it. Plow it. Get it out of our way. We push it to our fringes. Is there anything uglier or sadder than a ten-day-old snow dump? It's not even snow anymore. It's slush.

When the sun is a bike ride away, I will hear it. It will sound like wind in treetops. I will awaken.

I am rain. I like that most of all, being rain.

He thinks they may also imitate the sounds of birds that are no longer around. He thinks the sounds of extinct birds are passed down the years from mockingbird to mockingbird... He says when a mockingbird sings, for all we know it's pitching fossils into the air. He says who knows what songs of ancient creatures we may be hearing out there.

Even just sitting here, like this, our bodies are churning, our minds are chattering. There's a whole commotion going on inside us.'...'sometimes they just get in the way. The earth is speaking to us, but we can't hear because of all the racket our senses are making. Sometimes we need to erase them, erase our sense. Then -- maybe -- the earth will touch us. The universe will speak. The stars will whisper.

So he does what a kid has to do: He smells the cedar chest in his parents' bedroom, he decapitates dandelions, seesaws at the park, licks the mixing bowl, rides his bike, counts railroad cars, holds his breath, clucks his tongue, tastes tofu, touches moss, daydreams, looks back, looks ahead, wishes, wonders… and before he knows it, miraculously, the summer is over." (p. 163).