Quotes About Nature

Wherever there was a scrap of soil amongst the ravaged crags, emaciated trees struggled to cling on: a poignant metaphor for the way so many Nepalis eke out an existence, defiantly surviving on less than nothing.

A small, light object landed on my head. I looked around. Another small something hit me. I looked up. After a third thing hit me, I untangled a couple of deer droppings from my hair. It was spotted deer poop. I must be one of the only kids on the planet to recognise the sultana-like pellets of hares and deer and the boulders left by elephant and rhino. I heard a cackle behind me and turned to receive a handful of deer pellets full in the face.

Three mongooses, playing chase, burst out of the undergrowth and came galumphing across the track. The leader stopped and the other two bounced on him. There was a crazy bundle of squealing fur, ears, noses and tails. The mongooses broke apart. All three stood up on hind legs to look at us.

Morning mists skulked over the river.

All of a sudden there was a scampering sound. A small furry hand grabbed my food. The hand had fingernails just like mine, and they were just as dirty. The monkey-thief was fast. He didn't even look back as he shot back up the tree to enjoy my lunch. Another rhesus monkey reached into my day-sack, and cantered away awkwardly with a bigger prize.

You can only chase a butterfly for so long.

Fiction cannot recite the numbing numbers, but it can be that witness, that memory. A storyteller can attempt to tell the human tale, can make a galaxy out of the chaos, can point to the fact that some people survived even as most people died. And can remind us that the swallows still sing around the smokestacks.

When the land is abused, nature has a way of striking back. Land will eventually go back to what nature intended, but the cost is high. The land is what it is, no matter what man does or thinks he can do. Benteen Calder knew it, and Webb knew learned it. Hopes die and man moves on, but the land stays.

Oleander time, she said. Lovers who kill each other now will blame it on the wind.

I know a place on this Earth that contains wonders enough to stop the breath. A place where the very rocks whisper and whine, where the rivers boil and the snow-studded peaks thrust into a bowl of blue; where great shaggy beasts press the earth with cloven hooves or threaten with claw and fang; where new life and lurking death coexist in the shallows of varicolored pools.

I felt, just then, a kind of indebtedness to green, the colour.

The day is early with birds beginning and the wren in a cloud piping like the child in the poem, drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe. And the place grows bean flower, pea-green lush of grass, swarm of insects dizzily hitting the high spots; dunny rosette creeping covering shawl ream in a knitted cosy of roses; ah the tipsy wee small hours of insects that jive upon the crippled grass blades and the face of the first flower alive.

So I went up north to a land of palm trees and mangroves like malignant growths in the mud-filled throats of the bays, and orange trees with their leaves accepting darkly and seriously, in their own house as it were, the unwarranted globular outbursts of winter flame; and the sky faultless and remote.

Distance looks our way; the godwits vanish towards another summer and none knows where he will lie down at night.

At first her prose may seem a luxuriant unpruned Eden. But soon the reader sees the careful gardening, the astute nurture of what nature provides. Frame's inner geography is complex, her psyche contains elaborate structures. She had the artist's ability to make strange associations and imaginative leaps;

I will write about the season of peril. I was put in hospital because a great gap opened in the ice floe between myself and the other people whom I watched, with their world, drifting away through a violet-coloured sea where hammerhead sharks in tropical ease swam side by side with the seals and the polar bears. I was alone on the ice.

One of the worst mistakes you can make as a gardener is to think you're in charge.

The crested sprookje let her hand drop. From its own vibrantly colored yoke it tugged a feather and gave it to her. Feathers are good, it told her silently, try them.

There was something of the wildwood in the man who came and went illusive as moonlight moving through the branches.

If a girl were asked which part of a plant she would be, would any choose the root? Blindly clutching the dark earth, never seeing sun nor feeling wind? Toiling there to feed the stem and flower with never a thank-you from them? And who would choose to be the thorn? Thorns protect the plant from pluckers, but who gives honor to them? Nay, any girl would choose to be the bud, opening to the sun, fragrant and beautiful, tickled by bees and butterflies, and looked upon with love.

Ancient peoples who lived close to the earth and in harmony with nature recognized the powerful energy that emanated from the moon and governed life on earth. The ever-changing phases of light and darkness created a balance in nature, and people lived in accordance with the moon's cycles and seasons. They observed the correlation between lunar cycles and the monthly menstrual cycles of women, and therefore gave the moon a female identity.

They have achieved a level of organization far beyond others of their species. Unfortunately, it is being used for destructive purposes at the moment. Don't look so surprised my dear, it's in the nature of the beast.' 'But these squirrels are not beasts!' Amber protested. 'Oh pish-posh, we are all of us beasts,' the professor replied lightly. 'The trouble comes when we try to pretend that we're not.

Tu sais, le coucher de soleil quand y a des gros nuages pis que le ciel est rose, ben t'es plus belle que ça. Tu sais, quand le lac est calme, que c'est comme de l'huile pis que les truites se mettent à sauter, ben t'es plus… excitante que ça.

Yes, He could have. He could let us go through all of our life, bundlin' us and shelterin' us from anything and everything that would hurt us. I could do that with my petunias, Josh. I could build a box around them and keep them from the wind and the rain, the crawlers and the bees. What would happen iffen I did that, Josh?" I jest shrugged. The answer was too obvious. "They'd never bear flowers," said Auntie Lou.