Quotes About Maples

All the medical examiners in the state of Florida are forensic pathologists with medical degrees.

Early that afternoon they came to a small town called Bradbury, which under its Nicosia-class tent looked like something out of Illinois: treelined blacktop streets, screened-in porches fronting two-story brick houses with shingle roofs, a main street with shops and parking meters, a central park with a white gazebo under giant maples.…

The sunshine of a day in early spring, honey pale and honey sweet, was showering over the red brick buildings of Queenslea College, and the grounds about them, throwing through the bare, budding maples and elms, delicate, evasive etchings of gold and brown on the paths, and coaxing into life the daffodils that were peering greenly and perkily up under the windows of the co-eds' dressing-room.

light, the sweetness of sleepy robins whistling among the twilit maples, and the dance of a gusty group of daffodils blowing against the

and the Anne Shirley of other days saw her coming, as they sat on the big veranda at Ingleside, enjoying the charm of the cat's light, the sweetness of sleepy robins whistling among the twilit maples, and the dance of a gusty group of daffodils blowing against the old, mellow, red brick wall of the lawn. Anne was sitting on the steps, her hands clasped over her knee, looking, in the kind

Autumn, whispering through the maples, Pleaded: 'Die here with me!

His teachings remind us that one half of the truth is that the earth endows us with great gifts, the other half is that the gift is not enough. The responsibility does not lie with the maples alone. The other half belongs to us; we participate in its transformation. It is our work, and our gratitude, that distills the sweetness.

We do not pay at the pump for the cost of climate change, for the loss of ecosystem services provided by maples and others. Cheap gas now or maples for the next generation? Call me crazy, but I'd welcome the tax that would resolve that question.

Last color bleeds from the trees, the slow drip of rain, collapsing. The feverish maples decline. We pause to pick mushrooms, stick into our sacks these squat, warty, beige and tan hammers, these spongy plungers and rams, these alien, faceless denizens of damp. They are not in our book. As we walk through this flaccid rain, this vague sense of loss and wrong, we don't talk. But we wonder about maples and mushrooms, about us: Anything you can't name is dangerous.

The maples had sheltered the west side of our house for over a hundred years, and left, as fallen trees do, a void so absolute you couldn't possibly have imagined it beforehand.

Spring has many American faces. There are cities where it will come and go in a day and counties where it hangs around and never quite gets there. Summer is drawn blinds in Louisiana, long winds in Wyoming, shade of elms and maples in New England.

The cicadas pierce the air with their searing one-note calls; dust eddies across the roads; from the weedy patches at the verges, grasshoppers whir. The leaves of the maples hang from their branches like limp gloves; on the sidewalk my shadow crackles.

The leaves were half-gone now. The Norway maples still hung on to their yellow, but most of the orangey-red of the sugar maples had found their way to the ground, leaving behind the stark branches that seemed to hang like stuck-out arms and tiny fingers, skeletal and bleak.

Do you think of them as decoration? Think again. Here are maples, flashing. And here are the oaks, holding on all winter to their dry leaves. And here are the pines, that will never fail, until death, the instructions to be green.

Maples are such sociable trees ... They're always rustling and whispering to you.

The pallid light drowned out the stars, it lay like silence on the earth, it dropped through the leafy web of the young maples, printing the earth with swarming moths of elvish light.

Catch a vista of maples in that long light and you see Autumn glowing through the leaves.... The promise of gold and crimson is there among the branches, though as yet it is achieved on only a stray branch, an impatient limb or an occasional small tree which has not yet learned to time its changes.

The rinsed foam swirled into one drain that always clogged come October when the maples dropped Canadian propaganda over everything.

NOW the final copper light of afternoon fades; now the street beyond the low maples and the low signboard is prepared and empty, framed by the study window like a stage.

They have thundered past now and crashed silently on into the dusk; night has finally come. Yet he still sits at the study window, the street lamp at the corner flickers and glares, so that the bitter shadows of the unwinded maples seem to toss faintly upon the August darkness.