Quotes About Landscape

That last stretch of the journey from Toronto to Crow Lake always takes me by the throat. Partly it's the familiarity; I know every tree, every rock, every boggy bit of marshland so well, that even though I almost always arrive after dark I can feel them around me, lying there in the darkness as if they were my own bones.

Something unpronounceable followed by a long silence points out my life is becoming a landscape.

There are a lot of times the heart burrows deeper, goes tunnelling into itself for reasons only the heart itself seems to know.They are times of isolation, of hibernation, sometimes of desolation. There is a bareness that spreads out over the interior landscape of the self, a bareness like tundra, with no sign of life in any direction, no sign of anything beneath the frozen crust of ground, no sign that spring ever intends to come again.

To escape the Hedge, a changeling either needs to find an active (not necessarily open) gateway, or suitable door, archway, mirror, or what have you to make into a gateway. Finding either from the Hedge is easy enough as long as the changeling can still see the mortal world through said gateway. If a changeling so much as turns her back on the mortal world, though, perspective is lost, and gateways simply become part of the landscape, while mortal-world features disappear entirely.

A glacier is like a river; the level places where it spreads out tranquilly are followed by turbulent falls.

My body, which is one of the visibles, sees itself also and thereby makes itself the natural light opening its own interior to the visible, in order for the visible there to become my own landscape, realizing (as it is said) the miraculous promotion of Being to "consciousness," or (as we prefer to say) the segregation of the "within" and the "without

A slope of buttercups flashed suddenly when the wind struck it and wild morning glory spotted a stretch of daisies with purple and dainty lavender. To be sure, the blossoms never grew thickly enough to make strong dashes of color, but they tinted and stained the hillsides. He began to cross noisy little watercourses, empty most of the year, but now the melting snow fed them. From eddies and quiet pools the bright watercress streamed out into the currents

While the river of life glides along smoothly, it remains the same river only the landscape on either bank seems to change.

Prescott National Forest is right on the edge of my home in Arizona.

A place where you can see a good view is also a good place to sit and dream!

Deserts look beautiful and green fields look beautiful too. Nature is genius because it knows how to look beautiful in every way.

For the land, the sea is beautiful; for the sea, the land is beautiful!

Lake is jealous of mountain; mountain is jealous of lake!

Morning in the city is not a real morning; morning of the shepherd, that is the real morning!

There is no place on earth or on the universe that a tree cannot turn a place into a more beautiful site!

From the air Anguilla looked narrow, flat, and scrubby, but that was only part of the picture.

Autumn vineyards rolled up the hills in deep red lines behind my house.

As nossas estradas já tiveram a timidez dos rios e a suavidade das mulheres. E pediam licença antes de nascer. Agora, as estradas tomam posse da paisagem e estendem as suas grandes pernas sobre o Tempo, como fazem os donos do mundo.

a cidade não é um lugar. É a moldura de uma vida, um chão para a memória. Enrolei a linha, e regressei a casa, o poente avermelhando a paisagem e os flamingos trazendo o céu para junto da terra. Então, ganhei certeza: a cidade em que nasci estava destinada a nascer de mim.

Ave Seria um pássaro No sono das asas ondulava toda a solidão do céu Terrestre, só a fugitiva sombra Paisagem nenhuma lhe dava abrigo Pousado, o corpo de si mesmo se exilava Nos ensinava a deslumbrância da viagem a nós que só na morte olharemos os céus de frente

Attached to the survey was William Phipps Blake, a young geologist from a prominent Eastern family. Blake's party failed to discern a suitable railroad route, but he did stumble upon a remarkable geologic feature in the trackless desert.

I think of beauty as something that dies; either it's destroyed by time or stupidity or I have only a moment to experience it, and then only memory after that; even if i can return and look again, I can't quite manage to get back the moment. So, to me, the beauty of the trees is like the beauty of death, as if death will mean wondering forever in the dim of those trees, the landscape funerealizes in its lushest profusion of green.

The open spaces are almost too raw to take in — lidless eyes of blackwater flashes, caribou moss sodden and spongy as a lung. It's as if the landscape's insides are all on the surface. Exposed stone cracked by millennia of frost, fractures that weren't properly set leaving a permanent hitch in the country's gait. Even as you walk its naked spine you can feel the island limping away from you. TRANSTRÖMER ON BRIMSTONE HEAD 1.

The open spaces are almost too raw to take in — lidless eyes of blackwater flashes, caribou moss sodden and spongy as a lung. It's as if the landscape's insides are all on the surface. Exposed stone cracked by millennia of frost, fractures that weren't properly set leaving a permanent hitch in the country's gait. Even as you walk its naked spine you can feel the island limping away from you.