Quotes About Nature

There are days we live as if death were nowhere in the background; from joy to joy to joy, from wing to wing, from blossom to blossom to impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.

Unquiet souls. In the dark fermentation of earth, in the never idle workshop of nature, in the eternal movement, yea shall find yourselves again.

When I think of death, I only regret that I will not be able to see this beautiful country anymore unless the Indians are right and my spirit will walk here after I'm gone.

Oh to follow the road that leads away from everything, without anguish, death, winter waiting along it with their eyes open through the dew.

On a charcoal kiln a vine keeps climbing, while being burned to death.

To quit this troubled world is better than to enter it: the rosebud enters the garden with straitened heart and departs smiling.

Even for the dead I will not bind my soul to grief, death cannot long divide; for is it not as if the rose that climbed my garden wall had bloomed the other side?

Sunsets and death; death and therefore kisses, kisses and consequently birth and then death for yet another generation of sunset watchers.

Death lies on her like an untimely frost.

She knew herself, how she had slowly, over years, become a cat, a wolf, a snake, anything but a girl. How she had wrung out her girlhood like death.

The reaper does not listen to the harvest.

All that tread, The globe are but a handful to the tribes, That slumber in its bosom.

A male scorpion is stabbed to death after mating. In chess, the powerful queen often does the same to the king without giving him the satisfaction of a lover.

Every year without knowing it I have passed the day When the last fires will wave to me

The human animal is a beast that dies but the fact that he's dying don't give him pity for others.

Death is a name for beauty not in use.

The wind and the rain, gives this place a gleam that just isn't natural. And the ground, alive with crawling things, crawling death.

After his death the gardener does not become a butterfly, intoxicated by the perfumes of the flowers, but a garden worm tasting all the dark, nitrogenous, and spicy delights of the soil.

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Death rides on every passing breeze, He lurks in every flower.

Corpses are more fit to be thrown out than is dung.

Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses

Autumn is the harvest of greedy death.

From an aunt, long ago: "Death has come for me many times but finds me always in my lovely garden and leaves me there, I think, as an excuse to return.