Quotes About Leaves

The autumn twilight turned into deep and early night as they walked. Tristran could smell the distant winter on the air—a mixture of night-mist and crisp darkness and the tang of fallen leaves.... the crescent moon hung white in the sky and the stars burned in the darkness above them.

cold gray rainy day watching winter's last leaves fall from my cozy bed

Catch a vista of maples in that long light and you see Autumn glowing through the leaves.... The promise of gold and crimson is there among the branches, though as yet it is achieved on only a stray branch, an impatient limb or an occasional small tree which has not yet learned to time its changes.

Two sounds of autumn are unmistakable...the hurrying rustle of crisp leaves blown along the street...by a gusty wind, and the gabble of a flock of migrating geese.

Your love is like the trees gently blowing through my mind. You heart is streamed with leaves delicate as the seasons. Your soul is as the memory of all that heaven divulges.

Your love is like your whispers on leaves in the autumn, and on petals in the spring, your love, you see, is the beauty you bring.

There is, in the heart, the hard-rendering profit. As if we were plucking the leaves from the trees.

it is not everyone...who has your passion for dead leaves

Oh, the world needs those standing on the Bridge, For they know how Eternity reaches to earth In the wind that brings music to the leaves Of the forest: in the drops of rain that caress The sleeping life of the desert: in the sunbeams Of the first spring day in an alpine meadow. Only they can blow the dust from the seeing eyes Of those who are blind.

The leaves themselves had voices, soft ones. They brushed and stroked against one another, and nodded and bowed and rippled and rustled, their interleaving gently stirred by the breeze. It sounded like whispered conversation.

Herbs? Herbs are from the leaves and stems of plants. Spices, on the other hand, are from the root, bark, and seeds.

The sunlight slipped over the polished leaves.

High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince.  He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.

Her ivory hands on the ivory keys Strayed in a fitful fantasy, Like the silver gleam when the poplar trees Rustle their pale leaves listlessly, Or the drifting foam of a restless sea When the waves show their teeth in the flying breeze.

Perhaps the whisper was born before lips, And the leaves in treelessness circled and flew, And those, to whom we impart our experience as bliss, Acquire their forms before we do

You see, people don't really get that Oklahoma seems to breed talent. Sure, a bunch of it leaves. But still. Talent. It's a serious mistake to underestimate any Okie.

Thrips feed on the underside of rose leaves, sucking their juice and causing them to turn yellow; and Lord Marshmoreton's views on these things were so rigid that he would have poured whale-oil solution on his grandmother if he had found her on the underside of one of his rose leaves sucking its juice.

Here is the solitude from which you are absent. It is raining. The sea wind is hunting stray gulls. The water walks barefoot in the wet streets. From that tree the leaves complain as though they were sick. White bee, even when you are gone, you live in my soul. You live again in time, slender and silent. Ah, you who are silent.

Book beautiful book, miniscule forest, leaf after leaf your paper smells of the elements. . . .

You, I remember as you were last autumn. You were the gray beret and the heart in calm. In your eyes clashed the flames of twilight. And the leaves would fall in the water of your soul.

The moon turns its clockwork dream. The biggest stars look at me with your eyes. And as I love you, the pines in the wind want to sing your name with their leaves of wire.

Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.

'Boys of Summer,' to me, is like the end of the summer, man. That heartbreaking feeling where you have to go back to school, your summer love is coming to an end, and the leaves are changing. That was always such an emotional time for me as a kid, because I loved summer so much.

The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!