Quotes About Leaves

To my quick ear the Leaves — conferred — The Bushes — they were Bells — I could not find a Privacy From Nature's sentinels — In Cave if I presumed to hide The Walls — begun to tell — Creation seemed a mighty Crack — To make me visible —

The hammock hangs on hooks in two trees at the very back of the yard, one is a shortish tree that's only twice my tall and bent over, one is a million times high with silvery leaves.

there was such a lot of whispering that it sounded like a thousand leaves rustling at once!

Autumn is the hardest season. The leaves are all falling, and they're falling like they're falling in love with the ground.

With the sound of gusting wind in the branches of the language trees of Babel, the words gave way like leaves, and every reader glimpsed another reality hidden in the foilage.

I used to have an aunty who read tea leaves. She was incredibly accurate.

My grandmother was this amazing woman in the Dominican Republic who used to read tea leaves and palms. She would cure people in her neighborhood by going into her garden, plucking a couple of leaves, and brewing teas.

Rays of evening sunshine glinted across the wood rails of the porch, hints of a thunderstorm flickering along the fog over the ridges. A sudden wind whipped through the trees, sending dried leaves to the ground. The sky was at war, Mother Nature caught between the chill of the dead and the wicked heat of the devil as he lingered in the foothills

But there is always a November space after the leaves have fallen when she felt it was almost indecent to intrude on the woods…for their glory terrestrial had departed and their glory celestial of spirit and purity and whiteness had not yet come upon them.

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.

A mockingbird lands on a low oak branch and scolds me. I rake the leaves out of my throat. Me: Can you buy some seeds? Flower seeds?

Sad that our finest aspiration, Our freshest dreams and meditations, In swift succession should decay, Like Autumn leaves that rot away.

Ascensions into heaven are like falling leaves sad and happy all at the same time Going away isn't really sad especially when your going enables a new kind of presence to be born.

The seed is the fetus, in other words, a true plant with its parts (that is, its leaves, of which there are usually two, its stalk or stem, and its bud) completely fashioned.

Thought moves like a dissociation of leaves across a lawn in a breeze.

What turned me on far more than the flickery silhouette of a bunting or a shrike was a general feeling of well-being: lofty tree-crowns blurred and waving in fresh gusts; the edge of a meadow darkened into mystery by a straggly blackthorn hedge; the intimacy of a single cornflower that no one else would ever notice; the scuffles of secret little beasts through dead leaves or grass, untainted by the absurdity of human institutions.

Life is the leaves which shape and nourish a plant, but art is the flower which embodies its meaning

Maybe all the secrets of life were written on the surface of leaves, waiting to be translated. If I touched them long enough, I might be given some information no one else had.

A little too abstract, a little too wise, It is time for us to kiss the earth again, It is time to let the leaves rain from the skies, Let the rich life run to the roots again.

Home. When it rains, you can smell the leaves in the forest and the sand. It's all so small and mild, the landscape surrounding the lake, so manageable. The leaves and the sand are so close, it's as if you might, if you wanted, pull them on over your head. And the lake always laps at the shore so gently, licking the hand you dip into it like a young dog, and the water is soft and shallow.

It has oblique leaves

Leaves hung in the stillness like hands of the newly dead.

Best of all he loved the fall the leaves yellow on the cottonwoods leaves floating on the trout streams and above the hills the high blue windless skies…now he will be a part of them forever.

In a flash I have a realization that chills me even further. While Robert and Ms. Violet knowingly engage in theatrics, that's just for business. It doesn't mean they don't actually believe this. The moving wave of leaves fades away before me, and I'm suddenly aware that the frogs have stopped their croaking. I get the feeling that I'm being watched. When I glance down at the shadows of Robert and me at our feet, a third figure now stands between us.