Quotes About Harmony

If you're John Muir you want trees to live among. If you're Emily, a garden will do. Try to find the right place for yourself.

I think there ought to be a little music here: hum, hum.

The moth and the fisheggs are in their place, The suns I see and the suns I cannot see are in their place, The palpable is in its place and the impalpable is in its place.

Give them the fields and the woods and the possibility of the world salvaged from the lords of profit. Stand them in the stream, head them upstream, rejoice as they learn to love this green space they live in, its sticks and leaves and then the silent, beautiful blossoms.

Have you stood, staring out over the swamps, the swirling rivers where the birds like tossing fires flash through the trees, their bodies exchanging a certain happiness in the sleek, amazing humdrum of nature's design — blood's heaven, spirit's haven, to which you cannot belong?

I have my ways of praying, as you no doubt have yours. Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible. I can sit on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds, until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost unhearable sound of the roses singing. — Mary Oliver, from "How I Go to the Woods," Swan: Poems and Prose Poems (Beacon Press, 2010)

The chickens ate all the crickets. The foxes ate all the chickens. This morning a friend hauled his boat to shore and gave me the most wondrous fish. In its silver scales it seemed dressed for a wedding. The gills were pulsing, just above where shoulders would be, if it had had shoulders. The eyes were still looking around, I don't know what they were thinking. The chickens ate all the crickets. The foxes ate all the chickens. I ate the fish.

to know our world is to be busy all day long with happiness.

If you can hear the trees in their easy hours of course you can also hear them later, crying out at the sawmill.

She can't see herself apart from the rest of the world or the world from what she must do every spring. Crawling up the high hill, luminous under the sand that has packed against her skin, she doesn't dream, she knows she is a part of the pond she lives in, the tall trees are her children, the birds that swim above her are tied to her by an unbreakable string.

The words, in the long lines of Leaves of Grass, as near as words can be, are a spiritual and a physical touching.

Existe la vida y existe la ópera, y yo quiero las dos cosas.

I would say that there exist a thousand unbreakable links between each of us and everything else, and that our dignity and our chances are one. The farthest star and the mud at our feet are a family, and there is no decency or sense in honoring one thing, or a few things, and then closing the list. The pine tree, the leopard, the Platte River, and ourselves—we are at risk together, or we are on our way to a sustainable world together. We are each other's destiny.

and sheep and chickens.

White Buffalo Woman

We had no problems, no conflicts," Mars500 Commander Sergei Ryazansky is saying.

They're not going to bother me tonight. They won't denigrate my efforts, or ridicule anything that's mine, won't roll their eyes, or correct me, or cut me short and leave the room. They won't burden, or overwork me, or heap upon me responsibilities that are theirs. And, no more than they are doing, they won't intrude on my privacy, try to embarrass me or make me uncomfortable. Plus, they seem pretty far beyond hurting each other.

When tenderness softened her heart, and the sublime feeling of universal love penetrated her, she found no voice that replied so well to hers as the gentle singing of the pines under the air of noon, and the soft murmurs of the breeze that scattered her hair and freshened her cheek, and the dashing of the waters that has no beginning or end.

There was a considerable difference between the ages of my parents, but this circumstance seemed to unite them only closer in bonds of devoted affection.

Harmony was the soul of our companionship, and the diversity and contrast that subsisted in our characters drew us nearer together.

My vices are the children of a forced solitude that I abhor, and my virtues will necessarily arise when I live in communion with an equal.

Romanticism valued individual voices, including those of women and common people. They tended to idealize the pastoral lives of farmers, shepherds, milkmaids, and other rustic people, figures who seemed to them to belong to a simpler, more wholesome, less cynical time when humankind lived in harmony with nature.

I need to say that we were strangers to any species of disunion or dispute. Harmony was the soul of our companionship, and the diversity and contrast that subsisted in our characters drew us nearer together.

He was a being formed in the very poetry of nature