Quotes About Nature

Cardinal Monkeyflower

circling the green. She

I just sit where I'm put, composed of stone and wishful thinking: That the deity that kills for pleasure will also heal, He could, even now, from what felt like an impossible distance, see through the mullioned windows of the bistro to the thick forests, and the leaves that would already be changing. As everything eventually did.

Though the duck looked bleary. But then, ducks often did.

Armand Gamache looked across to the deep green midsummer forest and the mountains that rolled into eternity. Then his eyes dropped to the village in the valley below them, as though held in the palm of an ancient hand. A stigmata in the Québec countryside. Not a wound, but a wonder.

Three craggy pines stood at the edge of the green -- like Wise Men who found what they were looking for.

This soft grass suggests 'softness' to me, but also at the same time 'lying-down-ness'.

Who wouldn't want to see some owl eggs?" I said, "Come on then, they are down here." He said, "Tallulah, the answer to who wouldn't want to see some owl eggs is... me!!!!

I me memorize a lot of poetry, too, so I'l have something to be saying to myself on long walks. A poem to repeat, either aloud or silently, will help you over a hill or on a long mile as surely as a neighbour who stops his team and gives you a lift.

She has a Billy goat brain and a mockingbird mouth!

The trees grew too thickly, and their trunks were too big for any healthy New England wood. There was too much silence in the dim alleys between them.

We must recognise the essential underlaying savagery in the animal called man, and return to older and sounder principles of national life and defense. We must realise that man's nature will remain the same so long as he remains man; that civilisation is but a slight coverlet beneath which the dominant beast sleeps lightly and ever ready to awake.

Despite my solitary life, I have found infinite joy in books and writing, and am by far too much interested in the affairs of the world to quit the scene before Nature shall claim me.

More wonderful than the lore of old men and the lore of books is the secret lore of the ocean. Blue, green, grey, white, or black; smooth, ruffled, or mountainous; that ocean is not silent. All my days I have watched it and listened to it, and I know it well. At first it told to me only the plain little tales of calm beaches and near ports, but with the years it grew more friendly and spoke of other things; of things more strange and more distant in space and time.

Home is where my horse is.

Every afternoon, I was in the pasture with cattle or fishing and shooting my BB gun. That kind of freedom allows imagination to develop.

Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour.

Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me, And drench me in loneliness.

Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.

I walk down the garden paths, And all the daffodils Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. I walk down the patterned garden-paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair, and jewelled fan, I too am a rare Pattern. As I wander down The garden paths.

You are cold and flame. You are the crimson of amaryllis, The silver of moon-touched magnolias. When I am with you, My heart is a frozen pond Gleaming with agitated torches.

Oh! To be a flower Nodding in the sun, Bending, then upspringing As the breezes run.

Then I see you, Standing under a spire of pale blue larkspur, With a basket of roses on your arm. You are cool, like silver, And you smile. I think the Canterbury bells are playing little tunes.

There is no good in arguing with the inevitable. The only argument available with an east wind is to put on your overcoat.