Quotes About Leaves

How the snow falls in the north! Flake on flake falling incessantly, until the small dingles are almost on a level with the uplands. It throws itself on the leaves of autumn, and holds them down in security from the strongest winds.

Writings scatter to the winds blank checks in an insane charge. And were they not such flying leaves, there would be no purloined letters.

As Dean MacCannell pointed out, "Anything that is remarked, even little flowers or leaves picked up off the ground and shown to a child, even a shoeshine or gravel pit, anything is potentially an attraction….Sometimes we have official guides and travelogues to assist us in this point. Usually we are on our own. How else do we know another person except as an ensemble of suggestions hollowed out from the universe of possible suggestions? How else do we begin to know the world?

They sat on chairs made of air and fanned their faces with transparent leaves. They spoke in both languages. We love you, don't cry. Sorrow eats time. Be patient. Time eats sorrow.

Mr Jenkins. Unique, as every star in the sky is unique, every leaf on every tree, every snowflake, every farandola, every cherubim, unique: Named.

Things I forgot to tell you: That I love you, and that when I awake in the morning I use my intelligence to discover more ways of appreciating you. That when June comes back she will love you more because I have loved you. There are new leaves on the tip and climax of your already overrich head. That I love you. That I love you. That I love you. I have become an idiot like Gertrude Stein. That's what love does to intelligent women. They cannot write letters anymore.

Wild animals passed on their way under the leaves; each track was an arterial road; and when I stooped and looked at the earth close to, I saw, from leaf to leaf and flower to flower, a moving host of insects.

spine as she sneaked a look down the forested slope. The Blue Ridge Mountains were sheathed in October's mellow gold, but the leaves were steadily raining down in the breeze as the forest braced for winter's sleep.

My father, my father, and dost thou not hear The words that the Erl-King now breathes in mine ear? 'Be calm, dearest child, 'tis thy fancy deceives; Tis the sad wind that sighs through the withering leaves.

Leaves around the door are penciled losses.

Harlan was not a particularly religious man, and had always poured scorn on those whom he termed "God-botherers"—Christian, Jew, or Muslim, he had no time for any of them—but he was, in his way, a deeply spiritual being, worshipping a god whose name was whispered by leaves and praised in birdsong. He had been a warden with the Maine Forest Service for forty years

This killing of his 'mythology' how could he survive it? His 'mythology' had been his escape from life, his escape into a world where machinery could not reach him, his escape into a deep, green, lovely world where thoughts unfolded themselves like large, beautiful leaves growing out of fathoms of blue-green water!

The Crows of the region could have told them that there are almost always more Crows around them than they can see; but like the few snowflakes that fall on your tongue or autumn leaves you can catch, it's only the ones you can count that matter.

Our souls are but leaves in a storm, and only the gods know where we will come to rest.

True solitude is a din of birdsong, seething leaves, whirling colors, or a clamor of tracks in the snow

A breeze discovered my open book And began to flutter the leaves to look

Within us - the heart of us, really - is a 'ground' that is to our thoughts and feelings, our relationships with others and ourselves, as is the Earth to the leaves that first race across her and then, no longer able to run, give themselves up to nourish her body so that she may give birth again come the spring.

And here in Britain the wind moaned through the desolate woods, the skies wept, and wet gale-blown leaves pattered against the windows and stuck there, making little pathetic shadows against the steamy glass. There had been wild weather often enough in his own country, but that had been the wild weather of home; here was the wind and and rain and wet leaves of exile.

Rain it did, and that night in the atrium of the old farmhouse, they could here it hushing and pattering on the roof and among the broad leaves of the fig-tree outside; and the little breath of air from the open door that scarcely stirred the flame of the lamp on the table bore with it that most wonderful of all smells, the throat-catching heart-catching scent of rain on a hot and thirsty earth.

Oaks are the true conservatives; They hold old leaves till summer gives A green exchange.

Rain?. It washes the leaves, Gives new life to grass, Draws out the scent of the earth

But memories are time beings, too, like cherry blossoms or ginkgo leaves; for a while they are beautiful, and then they fade and die.

For the time being Words scatter Are they fallen leaves?

The light air, the restless leaves; the ripple of time warped by our longing. There, as if we were painted by some unknown impressionist.