Quotes About Nature

Sometimes I feel as if those exams meant everything, but when I look at the big buds swelling on those chestnut trees and the misty blue air... They don't seem half so important

The fir is the tree of mystery and shadows, and yields never to the encroachments of crude radiance

There's something taking about her, conceded Miss Cornelia. You never see her but she's laughing, and somehow it always makes you want to laugh too. She can't even keep a straight face in church. Una is ten—she's a sweet little thing—not pretty, but sweet. And Thomas Carlyle is nine. They call him Carl, and he has a regular mania for collecting toads and bugs and frogs and bringing them into the house.

But finally the day began to realize that she was growing old. Then a sort of pensiveness fell over her which dimmed yet intensified it; sharp angles, glittering points, melted away into curves and enticing gleams. The white harbour put on soft grays and pinks; the far-away hills turned amethyst.

Geometri s?nav?n? geçsem de geçmesem de güneÅŸ doÄŸup batmaya devam edecek.

Yet he never seemed unhappy or unsatisfied. As long as he could plough and garden and reap he was as contented as a sunny old pasture. His black hair was but lightly frosted with silver and a ripe, serene spirit revealed itself in his rare but sweet smiles. His old fields had given him bread and delight, joy of conquest and comfort in sorrow. Anne was satisfied because he was buried near them. He might have "gone gladly" but he had lived gladly, too. The

It had always seemed to Emily, ever since she could remember, that she was very, very near to a world of wonderful beauty.

Have you ever noticed how many different silences there are, Gilbert? The silence of the woods... of the shore... of the meadows... of the nigh... of the summer afternoon. All different because all the undertones that thread them are different. I'm sure if I were totally blind and insensitive to heat and cold I could easily tell you where I am by the quality of the silence about me.

L.M. Montgomery

clouds of the golden west between its softly dark shores. The sea moaned eerily on the sand-bar, sorrowful even in spring, ...

Red Currants are such beautiful things, aren't they Dora? It's just like eating jewels, isn't it?

Isn't that a view worth looking at? Nice and far from the marketplace, ain't it? No buying and selling and getting gain. You don't have to pay anything- all that sea and sky free- 'without money and without price.

Girls, sometimes I feel as if those exams meant everything, but when I look at the big buds swelling on those chestnut trees and the misty blue air at the end of the streets they don't seem half so important.

You have the whole world at your doorstep here, said John Meredith, with a long breath. What a view—what an outlook! At times I feel stifled down there in the Glen. You can breathe up here.

Susan Baker 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

She lifted her head and stepped lightly along, her eyes fixed on the sunset sky and an air of subdued exhilaration about her.

GüneÅŸin ÅŸu tepelerin ard?ndan doÄŸuÅŸunu ve köknarlar?n sivri uçlar? aras?ndan parlay???n? izlemek muhteÅŸem bir ÅŸey. Her gün sanki yenileniyormuÅŸ ve ruhum güneÅŸin bu ilk ???klar?yla y?kan?yormuÅŸ gibi hissediyorum.

Bóg jest w niebie i Å›wiat jest piÄ™kny.

That white birch you caught me kissing is a sister of mine. The only difference is, she's a tree and I'm a girl, but that's no real difference.

Susan Baker 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

If you were out in a great big woods with other trees all around you and little mosses and Junebells growing over your roots and a brook not far away and birds singing in you branches, you could grow, couldn't you? But you can't where you are. I know just exactly how you feel, little trees.

Mrs. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little hollow, fringed with alders and ladies' eardrops and traversed by a brook that had its source away back in the woods of the old Cuthbert place;

It's lovely in the woods now. All the little wood things—the ferns and the satin leaves and the crackerberries—have gone to sleep, just as if somebody had tucked them away until spring under a blanket of leaves. I think it was a little gray fairy with a rainbow scarf that came tiptoeing along the last moonlight night and did it.

There is only one realm in which characters defy natural laws and remain the same—the realm of bad writing. And its the fixed nature of the characters which makes the writing bad. If a character in a short story, novel, or play occupies the same position at the end as the one he did at the beginning, that story, novel, or play is bad.