Quotes About Nature

Marilla, walking home one late April evening from an Aid meeting, realized that the winter was over and gone with the thrill of delight that spring never fails to bring to the oldest and saddest as well as to the youngest and merriest.

The little birds sang as if it were The one day of summer in all the year.

Ben her zaman, herkesin kalbinde ve hepimizin hayat?nda bahar olmas?n? dilerdim.

MRS. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little hollow

O yolu seviyorum çünkü orada insanlar sana deli olduÄŸunu söylemeden yüksek sesle düÅŸünebilirsin.

The woods are human, but the sea is of the company of the archangels.

and the Anne Shirley of other days saw her coming, as they sat on the big veranda at Ingleside, enjoying the charm of the cat's light, the sweetness of sleepy robins whistling among the twilit maples, and the dance of a gusty group of daffodils blowing against the old, mellow, red brick wall of the lawn. Anne was sitting on the steps, her hands clasped over her knee, looking, in the kind

Marilla, Bay Harrison'?n akçaaÄŸaç korusunun üzerindeki ÅŸu büyük y?ld?zlara bak. Etraf?ndaki gümüÅŸsü gökyüzünü kutsal bir sessizlik kaplam?? gibi. Bu bana sanki bir duaym?? gibi geliyor. Sonuçta y?ld?zlar? ve böyle bir gökyüzünü görebilen bir insan, küçük hayal k?r?kl?klar?yla kazalar? o kadar fazla dert etmez, deÄŸil mi?

I'm never tired of finding out what a moonrise can be over them rocks and sea and harbor. There's a surprise in it every time.

Akl?mdan sürekli yaÄŸmurun her ÅŸeye ne kadar iyi geleceÄŸini, bahçemin ona ne kadar ihtiyac? olduÄŸunu geçirip durdum ve yaÄŸmur damlalar? düÅŸmeye baÅŸlad???nda çiçeklerle tomurcuklar?n neler düÅŸünmüÅŸ olabileceÄŸini merak ettim.

I favor the smell of sweet-grass. It always makes me think of my mother." "She was fond of it?" asked Anne. "Not that I knows on. Dunno's she ever saw any sweet-grass. No, it's because it has a kind of motherly perfume — not too young, you understand — something kind of seasoned and wholesome and dependable — jest like a mother.

At the first bend she came upon Miss Lavendar, standing under a big, broad-branching fir. She wore a gown of warm, rich red, and her head and shoulders were wrapped in a silvery grey silk shawl. 'You look like the Queen of the fir-wood fairies,' called Anne merrily.

L.M. Montgomery

No son espléndidas esas gaviotas? ¿Le gustaría ser una gaviota? Yo creo que a mí sí; eso es, si no pudiera ser un ser humano. ¿No cree que sería bonito despertarse con los rallos del sol y zambullirse dentro del agua y salir otra vez, y así durante todo el día? ¿Y luego, por la noche, volar de vuelta al nido? Puedo imaginarme haciéndolo.

There were gardens bright with sinuous rills Where blossomed many an incense bearing tree, And there were forests ancient as the hills Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

For Anne to take things calmly would have been to change her nature.

I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers. It would be terrible if we just skipped from September to November, wouldn't it?

do love the west wind. It sings of hope and gladness, doesn't it?

I think, if ever any great sorrow came to me, I would come to the pines for comfort," said Anne dreamily.

If a kiss could be seen I think it would look like a violet.

I have an ideal Sunday in my mind. Only, I am such a coward that I cannot translate it into the real, but must drift on with the current of conventionality. But I would like to go away on Sunday morning to the heart of some great solemn wood and sit down among the ferns with only the companionship of the trees and the wood-winds echoing through the dim, moss-hung aisles like the strains of some vast cathedral anthem. And I would stay there for hours alone with nature and my own soul.

The goblins of her fancy lurked in every shadow about her, reaching out their cold, fleshless hands to grasp the terrified small girl who had called them into being. A white strip of birch bark blowing up from the hollow over the brown floor of the grove made her heart stand still. The long-drawn wail of two old boughs rubbing against each other brought out the perspiration in beads on her forehead. The swoop of bats in the darkness over her was as the wings of unearthly creatures.

Every night before I goto bed, I look out of my window and wonder if the dryad is really sitting here, combing her locks with the spring for a mirror. Sometimes I look for her footprints in the dew in the morning. Oh, Diana, don't give up your faith in the dryad!

Snow in April is an abomination.