Quotes About Nature

When I had laid it on the floor I went to blow the fire a-flame, But something rustled on the floor, And someone called me by my name: It had become a glimmering girl With apple blossoms in her hair Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air. . . .

The first time I saw him he was cooking mushrooms for himself; the next time he was asleep under a hedge, smiling in his sleep. He was indeed always cheerful, though I thought I could see in his eyes (swift as the eyes of a rabbit, when they peered out of their wrinkled holes) a melancholy which was well-nigh a portion of their joy; the visionary melancholy of purely instinctive natures and of all animals.

One had a lovely face, And two or three had charm, But charm and face were in vain Because the mountain grass Cannot but keep the form Where the mountain hare has lain. - Memory

Sing, for it may be that your thoughts have plucked Some medicable herb to make our grief Less bitter.

Away with us he's going, The solemn-eyed: He'll hear no more the lowing Of the calves on the warm hillside Or the kettle on the hob Sing peace into his breast, Or see the brown mice bob Round and round the oatmeal chest. For he comes, the human child, To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.

He made the world to be a grassy road Before her wandering feet.

Se ciò che io dico risuona in te, è semplicemente perché siamo entrambi rami di uno stesso albero.

Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Old age isa flight of smallcheeping birdsskimmingbare treesabove a snow glaze.

theseare the desolate, dark weekswhen nature in its barrennessequals the stupidity of man.The year plunges into nightand the heart plungeslower than night.

Mothlike in mists, scintillant in the minutebrilliance of cloudless days, with broad bellying sailsthey glide to the wind tossing green waterfrom their sharp prows while over them the crew crawls.

In summer the songsings itselfabove the muffled words—

From the petal's edge a line startsthat being of steelinfinitely fine, infinitelyrigid penetratesthe Milky Waywithout contact—

What "love" is I don't know if it's not the response of our deepest natures to one another.

All men by their nature give praise.It is allthey can do.

We sit and talk, quietly, with long lapses of silence and I am aware of the stream that has no language, coursing beneath the quiet heaven of your eyes which has no speech

Your thighs are appletrees. Your knees are a southern breeze.

In summer, the song sings itself.

As the rain falls so does your love bathe every open object of the world

But the sea which no one tends is also a garden

so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens.

Tell me not of joy: there's none Now my little sparrow's gone He, just as you, Would toy and woo, He would chirp and flatter me, He would hang the wing awhile, Till at length he saw me smile, Lord! how sullen he would be!

You must in all Airs follow the strength, spirit, and disposition of the horse, and do nothing against nature for art is but to set nature in order, and nothing else.

The mind, in proportion as it is cut off from free communication with nature, with revelation, with God, with itself, loses its life, just as the body droops when debarred from the air and the cheering light from heaven.