Quotes About Nature

There, on the world's rim, the lovely snail gleam of the railway tracks ran, flinging wild gesticulations of lemon or cherry-colored semaphore to the stars.

Irritations and angers aside, what about loves? What do you love most in the world? The big and little things, I mean.

Yet somehow we think we can grow, feeding on flowers and fireworks, without completing the cycle back to reality.

He aquí la respuesta, capitán. —No entiendo. —Los marcianos descubrieron el secreto de la vida entre los animales. El animal no discute la vida, vive. No tiene otra razón de vivir que la vida. Ama la vida y disfruta la vida.

Saule dedzina katru dienu. T? dedzina Laiku. Pasaule ri??o pa apli un ap savu asi, bet Laiks dedzina gadus un cilv?kus t?pat, bez vi?a l?dzdal?bas. Ja vi?š l?dz ar citiem dedzin?t?jiem dedzin?s cilv?ka roku rad?to, bet saule dedzin?s Laiku, tad ta?u nekas nepaliks p?ri!

Sometimes you see a kite so high, so wise it almost knows the wind. It travels, then chooses to land in one spot and no other and no matter how you yank, run this way or that, it will simply break its cord, seek its resting place and bring you, blood-mouthed, running.

If your reader feels the sun on his flesh, the wind fluttering his shirt sleeves, half your fight is won.

And on either side of the river was there a tree of life, which bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month; And the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.

How do you get so empty? he wondered. Who takes it out of you? And that awful flower the other day, the dandelion! It had summed up everything, hadn't it? What a shame! You're not in love with anyone! And why not?

He was a thing of brush and liquid eye, of fur and muzzle and hoof, he was a thing of horn and blood that would smell like autumn if you bled it out on the ground.

Bees do have a smell, you know, and if they don't they should, for their feet are dusted with spices from a million flowers.

Bet I know something else you don't. There's dew on the grass in the morning.

Somehow the people who made tennis shoes knew what boys needed and wanted. They put marshmallows and coiled springs in the soles and they wove the rest out of grasses bleached and fired in the wilderness. Somewhere deep in the soft loam of the shoes the thin hard sinews of the buck deer were hidden. The people that made the shoes must have watched a lot of winds blow the trees and a lot of rivers going down to the lakes. Whatever it was, it was in the shoes, and it was summer.

The boy looked down at his feet deep in the rivers, in the fields of wheat, in the wind that already was rushing him out of the town. He looked up at the old man, his eyes burning, his mouth moving, but no sound came out.

Once he saw her shaking a walnut tree, he saw her sitting on the lawn knitting a blue sweater, three or four times he found a bouquet of late flowers on his porch, or a handful of chestnuts in a little sack, or some autumn leaves neatly pinned to a sheet of white paper and thumb-tacked to his door.

Mr. Sanderson stood in the sun-blazed door, listening. From a long time ago, when he dreamed as a boy, he remembered the sound. Beautiful creatures leaping under the sky, gone through brush, under trees, away, and only the soft echo their running left behind.

They have forgotten, if they ever knew, the ancient knowledge that only by being truly sick can one regain health. Even beasts know when it is good and proper to throw up. Teach me how to be sick then, in the right time and place, so that I may again walk in the fields and with the wise and smiling dogs know enough to chew sweet grass.

Someday you'll be as old as I. People will say the same. 'Oh, no,' they'll say, 'those vultures were never hummingbirds, those owls were never orioles, those parrots were never bluebirds! One day you'll be like me!

Çimenleri biçen adam orada hiç olmam?? gibidir; bahç?vansa bir ömür boyu orada olacak.

So now do you see why books are hated and feared? They show the pores in the face of life. The comfortable people only wax moon faces, poreless, hairless, expressionless. We are living in a time when flowers are trying to live on flowers, instead of growing on good rain and black loam. Even fireworks, for all their prettiness, come from the chemistry of the earth. Yet somehow we think we can grow, feeding on flowers and fireworks, without completing the cycle back to reality.

Le cose che si sono viste una volta non possono morire, semplicemente non possono. Da qualche parte, nelle celle gocciolanti di cera di un alveare o nelle trentamile lenticole che ornano la testa di una falena, tutti i colori e le cose viste in un dato anno dovevano potersi ritrovare

Vivimos en una época en que las flores tratan de vivir de flores, en lugar de crecer gracias a la lluvia y al negro estiércol. Incluso los fuegos artificiales, pese a su belleza, proceden de la química de la tierra. Y, sin embargo, pensamos que podemos crecer, alimentándonos con flores y fuegos artificiales, sin completar el ciclo, de regreso a la realidad.

And he was gesturing up through the trees above to show them how it was woven across the sky or how the sky was woven into the trees, he wasn't sure which. But there it was, he smiled, and the weaving went on, green and blue, if you watched and saw the forest shift its humming loom.

And then they were at the end of the line, the silver tracks, abandoned for eighteen years, ran on into rolling country. In 1910 people took the trolley out to Chessman's Park with vast picnic hampers. The track, never ripped up, still lay rusting among the hills.