Quotes About Nature

oh, wide and splendid world! How good it is to look sometimes across great spaces, to lift one's eyes from narrowness, to feel the large silence that rests on lonely hills!

those future marigolds, shadowy as they are, and whose seeds are still sleeping at the seedman´s, have shone through my winter days like golden lamps.

Nieustaj?co czuj? si? szcz??liwa (na dworze, rzecz jasna, jako ?e w ?rodku jest s?u?ba i meble).

W ogrodzie szuka si? oddechu i g??bokiego spokoju; nie ma nikogo; tylko samotne kwiatki i szepcz?ce drzewa.

I came away quite joyfully, and with many a loving thought of my own dear ragged garden, and all the corners in it where the anemones twinkle in the spring like stars, and where there is so much nature and so little art.

the teeming plant life rejoices on the lawns free from all interference from men and hoes;

I certainly prefer buying new rose-trees to new dresses, if I cannot comfortably have both; and I see a time coming when the passion for my garden will have taken such a hold on me that I shall not only entirely cease buying more clothes, but begin to sell those that I already have.

But he felt too confident in Catherine's beautiful nature to be afraid of Ned. Catherine, who loved beauty, who was so much moved by it—witness her rapt face at The Immortal Hour—would never listen to blandishments from anyone with Ned's nose. Besides, Ned was elderly. In spite of the fur rug up to his chin, Christopher had seen that all right. He was an elderly, puffy man. Elderliness and love! He grinned to himself. If only the elderly could see themselves….

Cancer is an ecosystem. It is a crime spree.

Shoving the ends at him, I headed for the common. It wasn't far away: a green, tree-lined oasis, brightened with many seasonal varieties of Coca-Can discardus, Crisp-packetus-cheese-and-onionus, and the occasional, fragrant dog turd underfoot.

Never was there any one so beautiful as [he]... The wolves did not ravage, the frost winds did not bite...

If you've managed to do one good thing, the ocean doesn't care. But when Newton's apple fell toward the earth, the earth, ever so slightly, fell toward the apple as well.

This choreography of ruin, the world breaking like glass under a microscope, the way it doesn't crack all at once, but spreads out from the damaged cavities. Still for a moment it all recedes. The backyard potatoes swell quietly buried beneath their canopy of leaves. The wind rubs its hands through the trees.

There were steep, stark cliffs, grey and barren, with extraordinary

When you truly understand one thing—a hawk, a juniper tree, a rock—you will begin to understand everything.

Close attention to mollusks and frigate birds and wolves makes us aware not only of our own human identity but also of how much more there is, an assertion of our imperfect hunger for mystery. "Without mystery life shrinks," wrote biologist Edward O. Wilson. "The completely known is a numbing void to all active minds.

That wild animals have largely moved out of our view is of small note to many of us. We think, abstractly, that they live out there somewhere, browsing or flying or killing or doing whatever it is they do, and we think that we are keeping them among us by the sheer force of our desire, even as we consume, insatiably, the places where they live.

It has come quickly, this crushing, industrial love of paradise. The pervert-free, less-trammeled, hundred-mile-view days were little more than two decades past, not so very long ago. Yet already my own history sounds like another country.

But there are some born to do penance by nature. Maybe they lift the load for some of us who take it quite comfortably that we're humankind, and not angels.

The river was gilded in every ripple with capricious, scintillating light.

A girl like a squirrel! As swift, as sudden, as black and as red!

I think truth, like the burgeoning of a bulb under the soil, however deeply sown, will make its way to the light." "And there is nothing we can do to hasten it," said Pernel, and heaved a resigned sigh. "At present, nothing but wait." "And pray, perhaps?" she said.

When you have done everything else, perfecting a conventual herb-garden is a fine and satisfying thing to do.

worn to cobweb fragility, like the skins of very old men, that bruise and stain at the mere brushing of the breeze, and flower into brown blotches as the leaves into rotting gold. The colours of late autumn are the colours of the sunset: the farewell of the year and the farewell of the day. And of the life of man? Well, if it ends in a flourish of gold, that is no bad ending.