Quotes About Nature

You can dress a toad in lace, but the minute you let it go, it'll still poop on your porch.

There was no other place I loved so well as this one." "Me as well,"... For all the places I've loved, there have been none like this. This place is a deeper love, a sisterhood of water and sand and soul. A place where you fill me through my eyes and my ears, Father.

The storms come and it's water and wind as far as the eye can see for a bit. But winds calm and the waters drain. We find our feet again, and the ground under us sprouts a new crop of seed. That is always the way of it. I don't suppose this storm will be any different.

The best times of my life, the times that passed by me the most quickly, were the times when the roses grew wild.

The river's got her own magic. She takes care of her people. Always will. But tonight, that magic's gone bad.

I never thought to ask her name, Father, but you know the little mulberry girl as you know each sparrow of the field. You are the white berry that removes the stain.

free as the Canada geese that pass by

She said every bird in the air came from a thought of God, and so did I.

We didn't have fancy dresses and scooter toys on the porch and stuffed teddy bears and Crayolas and little china tea sets there. All we had was the river, but the river fed us and carried us and set us free.

gave in and let the tears happen. A good rain smooths out the soil, Wilda Culp used to say. I needed a good rain.

It's fixin' to come a toad strangler,

I wonder, in all of our family travels when times were good, in the fields of Europe and the far-flung reaches of the South Pacific, have I ever seen a place more glorious to the eye and beguiling to the senses than this one? Around us, misted valleys and high mountain vistas offer fold upon fold upon hundredfold of myriad greens. All is dressed in a splendor of cloud shadows.

None can contain the magnificence of a wave kissing sand or the perfect spiral of a shell drying translucent in the sun or the fire of morning rising over endless water.

Some things just are, because they are. Because God made them that way.

I have lived entirely, every moment in this wild and delicate place. What more would there be for me to do, if I lived to be one hundred? One bold year is worth a dozen timid ones.

were the times when the roses grew wild.

The half-moon hangs heavy, rocking on its back. Its twin rides the ripples in the rain barrel as I pass.

Conscience is a formidable and determined adversary. By nature, it strikes the weakest point in a man's reasoning. His

Conscience is a formidable and determined adversary. By nature, it strikes the weakest point in a man's reasoning.

It's like, if you walked along the shore here and had it in your mind exactly what each wave was supposed to leave behind, instead of being surprised by what does turn up, you'd be upset that it wasn't like you planned. What's supposed to be a beautiful mystery would just be a constant disappointment. That's the way I look at it. Life is a beautiful mystery. Somebody else is in charge of the ocean. You don't get to make a list of what it should bring.

Did the dead still want things? Or was death simply a letting go of all that is held so tightly in life—an understanding of the temporal and shallow nature of the human matters of possession, greed, desire, justice?

In a society not characterised by class exploitation, the relationship between the processes of surplus-production and reproduction of labour-power is qualitatively distinct from that characterising societies in which exploitation dominates...surplus-labour is identified by the nature of its contribution to social reproduction, not by the fact that it is provately appropriated.

Scenic Route Someone was always leaving and never coming back. The wooden houses wait like old wives along this road; they are everywhere, abandoned, leaning, turning gray. Someone always traded the lonely beauty of hemlock and stony lakeshore for survival, packed up his life and drove off to the city. In the yards the apple trees keep hanging on, but the fruit grows smaller year by year...

How swiftly the strained honey of afternoon light flows into darkness and the closed bud shrugs off its special mystery in order to break into blossom: as if what exists, exists so that it can be lost and become precious