Quotes About Nature

The glory of gardening: hands in the dirt, head in the sun, heart with nature. To nurture a garden is to feed not just the body, but the soul.

Our modern pessimists cannot see a tree, a flower, or a mountain, but straightway they drop into what I may call a falling sickness, and all the beauty of the woods, fields, and sky merely suggests to them a picturesque background for their own superior sighs and sorrows.

Through the dripping weeks that follow One another slow, and soak Summer's extinguished fire and autumn's drifting smoke.

Never did form more fairy thread the dance Than she who scours the hills to find it flowers; Never did sweeter lips chained ears entrance Than hers that move, true to its striking hours; No hands so white e'er decked the warrior's lance, As those which tend its lamp as darkness lours; And never since dear Christ expired for man, Had holy shrine so fair a sacristan.

Is life worth living? Yes, so long As Spring revives the year, And hails us with the cuckoo's song, To show that she is here; So long as May of April takes, In smiles and tears, farewell, And windflowers dapple all the brakes, And primroses the dell.

Though my verse but roam the air And murmur in the trees, You may discern a purpose there, As in music of the bees.

In my song you catch at times Note sweeter far than mine, And in the tangle of my rhymes Can scent the eglantine.

Once learn how Nature gardens for herself, and you will be able to spare yourself a good deal of trouble.

It is the business of poets to deal with the relation of the individual to himself, to the silent uniform forces of nature, and to other individuals, singly and collectively: in other words, to be dramatic or epic, as well as lyrical or idyllic.

Your voice would have silenced merle and thrush, And the rose outbloomed would have blushed to blush, And Summer, seeing you, paused, and known That the glow of your beauty outshone its own.

My virgin sense of sound was steeped In the music of young streams; And roses through the casement peeped, And scented all my dreams.

Now frowns the sky, the air bites bleak, The young boughs rock, the old trunks creak, And fast before the following gale Come slanting drops, then slashing hail, As keen as sword, as thick as shot. Nay, do not cower, but heed them not! For these one neither flies nor stirs; They are but April skirmishers, Thrown out to cover the advance Of gleaming spear and glittering lance, With which the sunshine scours amain Heaven, earth, and air, and routs the rain.

The Poet, too, has a garden, and one by no means to be disdained; and Veronica told me that when, the other day, some tactless person asked him which of his works he likes best, he replied, "My garden."

From sunny woof and cloudy weft Fell rain in sheets; so, to myself I hummed these hazard rhymes, and left The learned volume on the shelf.

If Nature built by rule and square, Than man what wiser would she be? What wins us is her careless care, And sweet unpunctuality.

I daresay larks do not find much music in the thunder. But they have the sense to be silent when they hear the roll of that untrembling diapason that makes all things tremble.

No one can rightly call his garden his own unless he himself made it.

The glory of gardening: hands in the dirt, head in the sun, heart with nature. To nurture a garden is to feed not just on the body, but the soul.

Hope is nature's veil for hiding truth's nakedness.

We always do what's natural, only sometimes we shouldn't do it.

Nature is man's teacher. She unfolds her treasures to his search, unseals his eye, illumes his mind, and purifies his heart; an influence breathes from all the sights and sounds of her existence.

Take time as it comes, the wind as it blows, woman as she is.

It was one of those somber evenings when the sighing of the wind resembles the moans of a dying man; a storm was brewing, and between the splashes of rain on the windows there was the silence of death. All nature suffers in such moments; the trees writhe in pain and twist their heads; the birds of the fields cower under the bushes; the streets of cities are deserted.

?tiin?ele sunt un bun de pre? dragii mei, dar livezile, copacii ??tia, ne-nva?? sus ?i tare cea mai frumoas? dintre toate ?tiin?ele: uitarea a ceea ce ?tim.