Quotes About Leaves

Aunt Zelda had written her note on special paper that she had made from pressed cabbage leaves.

Southeast Asia food uses many different types of spices which are quite new to me, like the curry leaves which I saw at the Kreta Ayer wet market in Chinatown. With such spices used in cooking, this usually imparts a strong aroma to Southeast Asian food, which appeals to the senses.

To such an extent does nature delight and abound in variety that among her trees there is not one plant to be found which is exactly like another; and not only among the plants, but among the boughs, the leaves and the fruits, you will not find one which is exactly similar to another.

Every day or two, I strolled to the village to hear some of the gossip which is incessantly going on there, circulating either from mouth to mouth, or from newspaper to newspaper, and which, taken in homeopathic doses, was really as refreshing in its way as the rustle of leaves and the peeping of frogs.

Then came the Autumne all in yellow clad…

He looked up at the dark line of trees and breathed in slowly, smelling wild garlic, mulched leaves, a fox den somewhere and a sweeter scent. Fruit blossom, he thought. Then that small mystery was eclipsed by a larger one. A stranger scent hid among the blossom, sweet and resinous at once. Lilies, John thought, drawing the scent deeper. Lilies mixed with pitch.

To such an extent does nature delight and abound in variety that among her trees there is not one plant to be found which is exactly like another; and not only among the plants, but among the boughs, the leaves and the fruits, you will not find one which is exactly similar to another.

In summer, when the days are long, Perhaps you'll understand the song: In Autumn, when the leaves are brown, Take pen and ink, and write it down.

I'm sure the woods look sleepy in the autumn, when the leaves are getting brown.

The wind picks up. It sends leaves scurrying for cover until a softer breeze blows through, settling them down again as if to say, Shhh, there, there, it's all right. One leaf still dances in the air. It spins higher and higher, defying gravity and logic, stretching for something just out of reach. It shall have to fall, of course. Eventually. But for now, I hold my breath, willing it to keep going, taking comfort in its struggle.

Sometimes when the wind blows through the leaves, it sounds like your name. It's like a sigh then. The most beautiful sound I ever heard. A gentle breeze catches in the branches then and I hear it, soft and low, a murmured prayer – Gem-ma, Gem-ma – and then the leaves trail delicate fingers across my cold cheeks.

When it is time for me to visit Brigid, I find her awake in her little room. That's awl righ', luv. I don' care to forget, if it's all the same, she says, and there are no rowan leaves at her window anymore.

Sometimes, when the wind blows through them leaves, it sounds like your name. It's like a sigh, then, she says. The most beautiful sound I ever heard. A gentle breeze catches in the branches then and I hear it, soft and low, a murmured prayer--Gem-ma, Gem-ma--and then the leaves bend down and trail delicate fingers across my cold cheeks.

"Spiritual teacher" of course is not an identity. "Spiritual teacher" is a function. Somebody comes, the teaching happens. Somebody leaves, there's no spiritual teacher left.

I am sad, like the hot dust on the streetsAnd the music of fresh fallen leavesCaught in a sliding summer breeze.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow…There must be reasons why the leaves decay. (From Auden's If I Could Tell You

The tree still celebrates its essential treeness through song, as nature will do whatever we impose on her. Birds still sing their ancient songs in the middle of a bustling city, with all its cacophony of man-made sounds. Dry leaves still rustle like dice even when growing against concrete or hewn stone. Out of a tiny crack in a pavement will crawl a perfectly formed insect, a creature of curves and protrusions amidst a linear world of man's engineering.

The shadows of leaves are addressed to immortality

There is something incredibly nostalgic and significant about the annual cascade of autumn leaves.

Thank you leaf blowers, for making me look like the world's lamest Ghostbuster. I ain't afraid of no leaves.

Hippopotamus, As the leaves fall to the ground Mechs now leave Japan

I like autumn. The drama of it; the golden lion roaring through the back door of the year, shaking its mane of leaves. A dangerous time; of violent rages and deceptive calm, of fireworks in the pockets and conkers in the fist.

That night, a cold breeze swept into Bridgewater. The leaves went fluttering like butterflies, and Judge Abbott began to have what he later called "the orchard dreams." Every night far into the following year, he dreamed of Jodee McGowen reclining nude by the Smoaky Lake, like she was Eve lying in a cluster of reeds in the oldest garden in the world.

At times on the orchard, the leaves fluttered like locusts. At times they turned upside down and showed their white undersides in an almost embarrassing way. At times they turned orange and brown. And at times they kept spinning off the trees like whirligigs. Now they were perfectly, sublimely still, like an audience. Birdie moved her lips to Enrico's and sighed into them, touching her forehead to his. From the trees, they looked like full-grown lovers.