Quotes About Nature

Change is the nature of luck.

It's why he'd got off the train here: the train had pulled towards this station and there'd been something clean about the mountains, clean like swept clean. They had something about them that accepted the fact of themselves, demanded nothing. They just were.

I penetrated to the heart of the forest, he says, sacrificed myself, and brought back—you. He

birth me all over again burn me and the tree next summer's sun midwinter guarantee

The earth is made of it. Green. Moss, algae, lichen, mould. It's the colour everything was before there were flowers, the colour of the first trees, the trees that didn't have leaves, had needles instead, the trees that grew in the first hiatus between cold and warm -

Month of sacrifice and month of playfulness. Month of restoration, of fertility-festivity. Month when the earth and the buds are already open, the creatures asleep for the winter have woken and are already breeding, the birds have already built their nests, birds that this time last year didn't exist, just bringing to life the birds that'll replace them this time next year. Spring-cuckoo month, grass-month.

And he looked at the oil out of coffee beans, and at frogspawn, and, and anyway now we know what microbes are and what cells are and that the naked human eye can only see a fraction of what is actually there. And that this - (the spill of water on the table) – is full of life we can't see, and just because we can't see it doesn't mean it isn't. It really really is.

Ha, he says. Well. Crazy weather out You're missing nothing, Pad. One of the worst springs I can remember. Snow up to here just two there. weeks ago. Minus seven. And now this. Twenty nine degrees. You're wrong, she says. One of the loveliest springs I've known. Plants couldn't wait to get going. All that cold. All this green.

Cut this tree I'm living in down. Hollow its trunk out. Make me all over again, with what you scooped out of its insides. Slide the new me back inside the old trunk. Burn me. Burn the tree. Spread the ashes, for luck, where you want next year's crops to grow. Birth me all over again Burn me and the tree Next summer's sun Midwinter guarantee

p 22 end of 2nd paragraph – because her presence is not important- "Compared to those trees around the summerhouse she is the kind of meaningless tree the gets planted in the grassy areas of the car park of a supermarkets.

there's nothing left of them, the pantomime innocents or the man with the gun, but bones in grass, bones in flowers, the leafy branches of the ash tree above them. Which s what, in the end, is left of us all, whether we carry a gun while we're here or don't. So. While we're here. I mean, while we're still here.

The nettles say nothing. The seeds at the tops of the grass stems say nothing. The little white flowers on the tops of their stalks, she doesn't know what they are but they're saying their fresh nothing. The buttercups say it merrily. The gorse says it unexpectedly, a bright yellow nothing, smooth and soft and delicate against the mute green nothing of its barbs.

One blink of a camera eye (can't quite put his finger on the name of the photographer) and that child dressed in leaves became all these things: sad, terrible, beautiful, funny, terrifying, dark, light, charming, fairystory, folkstory, truth.

I'm composed when it comes to compost.

The rain could not last forever; Nature must cease weeping some time. Just as girls, far away from their old homes and their old friends, must cease wetting their pillows with regretful tears after a time, and look forward to the new interests and new friends to which they have come.

The eyes were too intense, tortured almost. He was tall, but the body was wiry rather than powerful. Nature had gifted him with a cats grace and lethal swiftness, rather than the raw power of a bull.

He was, she thought, as beautiful as a young god, lying on his side among the grass and flowers

Thats the trouble. all i wanted was a tumble in the hay. oh, boy, i said. ill bet that cute thing is fun and games. what he doesn't know about the birds and the bees and the flowers and the trees, i can sure teach him

For what is a flower but lifes expressed passion for itself. Sudden and brief, but certain and eternal at the same time

Do we despise the rose because its beauty is fleeting? Some do, and seek comfort in glass or marble... ...Glass shatters, marble is eaten away by the tides of time. But the rose has unfurled its banner every spring to the sun and will do so for god knows how many uncounted ages more.

It is always spring somewhere

One will never remember A greater thing when one dies Than sunlight falling aslant long rows of corn, Or rainy days heavy with grey sullen skies.

ARAH lay on a quilt under a tree. The darkness was all around her, but through the branches she could see one bright star. It was comfortable to look at.

The leaves have mostly fallen, so the pines are having their glorious reign.