Quotes About Greenery

We seem wired to grieve with greenery. Allowing the dead to dissolve into the earth, to become part of the cycle of the seasons, has, for millennia, held the promise of cheating mortality.

Green fingers are the extension of a verdant heart.

So clear that you could see every delicate vein in the lacquered new leaves; so soft that you felt the air on newly bared arms like velvet; so suffused with every shade of green that it seemed that your very blood ran green, in harmony.

London was so rich, and also so green, and somehow so detailed: full of stuff that had been made, and bought, and placed, and groomed, and shaped, and washed clean, and put on display as if the whole city was for sale.

I would wash the dust of the world in a soft green flood. Here between sea and sea in a fairy wood, I have found a delicate wave-green solitude.

Plants cry their gratitude for the sun in green joy.

I like to garden, particularly mowing grass.

Everything was green, so green it went into him.

When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy, And the dimpling stream runs laughing by; When the air does laugh with our merry wit, And the green hill laughs with the noise of it.

Woods are rich with biodiversity and, above all, places of trees and light that spangles a thousand greens through the leaves.

I have a green thumb. I really like to get into the shrubs, the bushes, and really cultivate.

I urge you to imagine the interlaced abundance if, throughout suburbia, every stockade fence, every chain-linked boundary, were to be buried in varied greenery and each of them and every hedge transformed into a hedgerow. I ask you, at least, to open the door to some first guest that your party might begin.

Just because you've only got houseplants doesn't mean you don't have the gardening spirit — I look upon myself as an indoor gardener.

Naelin loved the forest, all the layers and shades of green, so many shades that there weren't words to describe them all - a spectrum of green, from the hopeful green of new leaves to the contemplative moss green on the forest floor, so dark it was nearly black.

Use plants to bring life.

a sort of botanical glory-hole

See the gold sunshine patching, And streaming and streaking across The gray-green oaks; and catching, By its soft brown beard, the moss.

For some reason I keep getting connected to men who have something to do with plants.

For me, green is more about cycling than recycling.

And we had met at last in this same cave of greenery, while the summer night hung round us heavy with love, and the odours that crept through the silence from the sleeping woods were the only signs of an outer world that invaded our solitude.

Well we have a tiny garden, it's like a postage stamp, so generally we try to get out to the parks in London as much as possible.

When I behold the heavens as in their prime, And then the earth (though old) still clad in green, The stones and trees, insensible of time, Nor age nor wrinkle on their front are seen

The trees were still green, the sky still blue, which counted for something. So they went ahead and plugged their smelly paradise - God's Own Country they called it in their brochures - because they knew, those clever Hotel People, that smelliness, like other peoples' poverty, was merely a matter of getting used to. A question of discipline. Of Rigor and Air-conditioning. Nothing more.

The grass looked wetgreen and pleased. Happy earthworms frolicked purple in the slush. Green nettles nodded. Trees bent.