Quotes About Nature

Hallo, Eeyore," said Christopher Robin, as he opened the door and came out. "How are you?" "It's snowing still," said Eeyore gloomily. "So it is." "And freezing." "Is it?" "Yes," said Eeyore. "However," he said, brightening up a little, "we haven't had an earthquake lately.

I found courage in the countryside, in nature. Being alone never frightened me, even at night, provided I was in contact with my surroundings - with the grass underfoot, with the dim shapes of trees and distant mountains. This was what I clung to.

But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing.

For a long time they looked at the river beneath them, saying nothing, and the river said nothing too, for it felt very quiet and peaceful on this summer afternoon. "Tigger is all right really," said Piglet lazily. "Of course he is," said Christopher Robin. "Everybody is really," said Pooh. "That's what I think," said Pooh. "But I don't suppose I'm right," he said. "Of course you are," said Christopher Robin.

Non apibus dubitandem est. (You never can tell with bees.) ~ Winnie ille Pu

Supposing a tree fell down, Pooh, when we were underneath it?' 'Supposing it didn't,' said Pooh. After careful thought Piglet was comforted by this.

Piglet had got up early that morning to pick himself a bunch of violets; and when he had picked them and put them in a pot in the middle of his house, it suddenly came over him that nobody had ever picked Eeyore a bunch of violets, and the more he thought of this, the more he thought how sad it was to be an Animal who had never had a bunch of violets picked for him.

Sing Ho! for the life of a Bear!

Once upon a time, a very long time ago now, about last Friday, Winnie-the-Pooh lived in a forest all by himself...

By the time it came to the edge of the Forest, the stream had grown up, so that it was almost a river, and, being grown-up, it did not run and jump and sparkle along as it used to do when it was younger, but moved more slowly. For it knew now where it was going

Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie, A fly can't bird, but a bird can fly. Ask me a riddle and I reply: "Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie." That

It's a very funny thought that, if Bears were Bees, They'd build their nests at the bottom of trees. And that being so (if the Bees were Bears), We shouldn't have to climb up all these stairs.

I told him that I had at first, when I had to go out to work so young, but I was used to it now and I didn't feel lonely. There were always the birds and the animals in the bush. "They are like music to me.

All the same he got a pinch of misery, thinking, just as he had sometimes in Kentucky when he'd be out in the woods, feeling good that he was alone, with everything to himself, and then he would spy someone and it would all be spoiled, as if the country wasn't his any more, or the woods or the quiet.

Hide me inside you, where the sweetest things are hidden, between the roots of roses and spices

Life without sacrifice is like a pretty rose without smell and thorns.

The Grizzly Bear is huge and wild; He has devoured the infant child. The infant child is not aware It has been eaten by a bear." "Infant Innocence

Loveliest of Trees Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away From fields where glory does not stay And early though the laurel grows It withers quicker than the rose.

The year might age, and cloudy The lessening day might close, But air of other summers Breathed from beyond the snows, And I had hope of those. They came and were and are not And come no more anew; And all the years and seasons That ever can ensue Must now be worse and few. So here's an end of roaming On eves when autumn nighs: The ear too fondly listens For summer's parting sighs, And then the heart replies.

Westward on the high-hilled plains Where for me the world began, Still, I think, in newer veins Frets the changeless blood of man. ... There, when hueless is the west And the darkness hushes wide, Where the lad lies down to rest Stands the troubled dream beside. There, on thoughts that once were mine, Day looks down the eastern steep, And the youth at morning shine Makes the vow he will not keep.

Down in lovely muck I've lain, Happy till I woke again.

Nature, not content with denying him the ability to think, has endowed him with the ability to write.

It nods and curtseys and recovers When the wind blows above, The nettle on the graves of lovers That hanged themselves for love. The nettle nods, the wind blows over, The man, he does not move, The lover of the grave, the lover That hanged himself for love.