Quotes About Nature

Paled, at length, the sweet sun setting; Sunk to peace the twilight breeze: Summer dews fell softly, wetting Glen, and glade, and silent trees.

Bana göre ise en büyük mutluluk, bat? rüzgar? eserken, gökte de pamuk gibi beyaz bulutlar uçuÅŸurken, h???r h???r eden yemyeÅŸil bir aÄŸaçta sallanmakt?r.

Güzel havalarda eline bir kitap al?r, yeÅŸilliklerle örtülü bir yeri kendine okuma yeri yapars?n...

Kötü bir yürek en sevimlileri bile çirkinden de kötü yapar.

Ele nunca saberá como eu o amo; e não é por ele ser bonito, Nelly mas por ele ser mais parecido comigo do que eu própria. Seja qual for a matéria do que nossas almas são feitas, a minha e a dele são iguais, e a do Linton é tão diferente delas como um raio de lua num relâmpago, ou a geada de fogo

In all the lonely landscape round I see no sight and hear no sound Except the wind that far away Comes sighing over the heathy sea

My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary.

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire.

I wish I were out of doors! I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free; and laughing at injuries, not maddening under them! Why am I so changed? why does my blood rush into a hell of tumult at a few words? I'm sure I should be myself were I once among the heather on those hills.

Now, my bonny lad, you are mine! And we'll see if one tree won't grow as crooked as another with the same wind to twist it!

My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods. Time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees - my love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath - a source of little visible delight, but necessary.?

Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree.

Oh, I'm burning! I wish I were out of doors! I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free... and laughing at injuries, not maddening under them! Why am I so changed?

GöreceÄŸiz bakal?m ayn? h?rpalay?c? rüzgar kar??s?nda baÅŸka baÅŸka iki aÄŸaç ay?n? biçimde bozulur muymuÅŸ, bozulmaz m?ym???

I think that one's art is a growth inside one. I do not think one can explain growth. It is silent and subtle. One does not keep digging up a plant to see how it grows.

Indians do not hinder the progress of their dead by embalming or tight coffining. When the spirit has gone they give the body back to the earth. the earth welcomes the body-coaxes new life and beauty from it, hurries over what men shudder at. Lovely tender herbage bursts from the graves, swiftly, exulting over corruption.

The forest was almost like a garden - no brambles, no thorns, nothing to stumble over, no rotten stumps, no fallen branches, all mellow to look at, melodious to hear, every kind of bird, all singing, no awed hush, no vast echoes, just beautiful, smiling woods, not solemn, solemn, solemn like our forests. This exquisite, enchanting gentleness was perfect for one day, but not for always - we were Canadians.

It is hard to remember just when you first became aware of being alive. It is like looking through rain onto a bald, new lawn; as you watch, the brown is all pricked with pale green. You did not see the points pierce, did not hear the stab - there they are!

More than ever was I convinced that the old way of seeing was inadequate to express this big country of ours, her depth, her height, her unbounded wildness, silences too strong to be broken - nor could ten million cameras, through their mechanical boxes, ever show real Canada. It had to be sensed, passed through live minds, sensed and loved.

For one moment the morning took you far out into vague chill, but your body snatched you back into its cosiness, back to the waiting dogs on the hill top. They could not follow out there, their world was walled, their noses trailed the earth. What a dog cannot hear or smell he distrusts; unless objects are close or move he does not observe them. His nature is to confirm what he sees by his sense of sound or of smell.

Emily Dickenson

I must go in. The fog is rising.

The lovely flowers embarrass me. They make me regret I am not a bee...

The sun just touched the morning; The morning, happy thing, Supposed that he had come to dwell, And life would be all spring.