Quotes About Nature

Lodged The rain to the wind said, 'You push and I'll pelt.' They so smote the garden bed. That the flowers actually knelt, And lay lodged -- though not dead. I know how the flowers felt.

Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire.

One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

Our life runs down in sending up the clock. The brook runs down in sending up our life. The sun runs down in sending up the brook. And there is something sending up the sun. It is this backward motion toward the source, Against the stream, that most we see ourselves in, The tribute of the current to the source. It is from this in nature we are from. It is most us.

The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, The road is forlorn all day, Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, And the hoof-prints vanish away. The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee, Expend their bloom in vain. Come over the hills and far with me, And be my love in the rain.

El bosque es hermoso, oscuro y profundo. Pero tengo promesas que cumplir, y millas que recorrer antes de dormir. Y millas que recorrer antes de dormir.

I end not far from my going forth By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower To carry again to you.

He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, Good fences make good neighbors.

They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves.

Part of a moon was falling down the west, Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills. Its light poured softly in her lap. She saw And spread her apron to it. She put out her hand Among the harp-like morning-glory strings, Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves, As if she played unheard the tenderness That wrought on him beside her in the night.

The line storm clouds fly tattered and swift, The road is forlorn all day,...

A Time to Talk When a friend calls to me from the road And slows his horse to a meaning walk, I don't stand still and look around On all the hills I haven't hoed, And shout from where I am, What is it? No, not as there is a time to talk. I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground, Blade-end up and five feet tall, And plod: I go up to the stone wall For a friendly visit.

I had A Lover's Quarrel With The World.

He moves in darkness as it seems to me Not of woods only and the shade of trees.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still, No longer blown hither and thither; The last lone aster is gone; The flowers of the witch hazel wither; The heart is still aching to seek, But the feet question 'Whither?' Ah, when to the heart of man Was it ever less than a treason To go with the drift of things, To yield with a grace to reason, And bow and accept the end Of a love or a season?

I have wished a bird would fly away, And not sing by my house all day; Have clapped my hands at him from the door When it seemed as if I could bear no more. The fault must partly have been in me. The bird was not to blame for his keys. And of course there must be something wrong In waiting to silence any song.

Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice.

He is all pine and I am apple orchard.

Lovers, forget your love, And list the love of these, She a window flower, And he a winter breeze.

My woods...the young fir balsams like a place Where houses all are churches and have spires.

A Late Walk - A Tree beside the wall stands bare, But a leaf that lingered brown, Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought, comes softly rattling down. I end not far from my going forth By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower to carry again to you.

My apple trees will never get across and eat the cones under his pines,I tell him.He only says,Good fences make good neighbors.

The tree the tempest with a crash of wood Throws down in front of us is not to bar Our passage to our journey's end for good, But just to ask us who we think we are

But the flower leaned aside And thought of naught to say, And morning found the winter breeze A hundred miles away.