Quotes About Nature

In nature's infinite book of secrecyA little I can read.

Then comes in the sweet o' the year.

Hills whose heads touch heaven.

I am Thane of Cawdor:If good, why do I yield to that suggestionWhose horrid image doth unfix my hairAnd make my seated heart knock at my ribs,Against the use of nature? Present fearsAre less than horrible imaginings.

Sweet are the uses of adversity,Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;And this our life exempt from public haunt,Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

The earth hath bubbles, as the water has,And these are of them.

From fairest creatures we desire increase,That thereby beauty's rose might never die.

There's no time for a man to recover his hair that grows bald by nature.

I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away...

A breath thou art,Servile to all the skyey influences.

I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind Thou art not so unkind, As man's ingratitude.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end.

Our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.

The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea.

This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.

This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands,-- This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

Yet do I fear thy nature It is too full o' the milk of human kindness.

There is nothing in the world more beautiful than the forest clothed to its very hollows in snow. It is the still ecstasy of nature, wherein every spray, every blade of grass, every spire of reed, every intricacy of twig, is clad with radiance.

The air is blue and keen and cold, With snow the roads and fields are white; But here the forest's clothed with light And in a shining sheath enrolled. Each branch, each twig, each blade of grass, Seems clad miraculously with glass: Above the ice-bound streamlet bends Each frozen fern with crystal ends.

O never a green leaf whispers, where the green-gold branches swing: O never a song I hear now, where one was wont to sing. Here in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to me still, But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on a lonely hill.

The possibilities that are suggested in quantum physics tell us that everything that we're looking at may not be in fact there, so the underlying nature of being is weird.

The best way of travel, however, if you aren't in any hurry at all, if you don't care where you are going, if you don't like to use your legs, if you don't want to be annoyed at all by any choice of directions, is in a balloon. In a balloon, you can decide only when to start, and usually when to stop. The rest is left entirely to nature.