Best 228 quotes in «forest quotes» category

If you want to live a peaceful life, either bring the forest to your house or your house to the forest!

I hate the forest, it's absence of social enviroment.

I have always been a anti-establishment artist. I once believed, and still do to some extent, that one could get a better education in a forest rather than a desk.

I love the forest.

In truth, I find the ocean unnerving. Too vast. I much prefer the forests around Stony Cross. They're always fascinating, and full of commonplace miracles... spiderwebs glittering with rain, new trees growing from the trunks of fallen oaks. I wish you could see them with me. And together we would listen to the wind rushing through the leaves overhead, a lovely swooshy melody... tree music!

I love to escape to wild places – forests, mountains rivers or the sea. If that’s not possible, I flee into books; vicarious travel is rejuvenating

In 1995 the budget for fighting fire made up 16 percent of the US Forest Service's budget. It rose to the 50 percent level in 2015 and could reach close to 70 percent by 2025.

Il traversa le sentier qui serpentait entre les arbres s'aidant de sa lampe torche. Le bruit des insectes nocturnes résonnait dans ses oreilles, on aurait dit que la forêt vivait, respirait, que les arbres menaçaient de se retirer de la terre et de s'abattre sur cet inconnu qui souillait leur temple sacré.

Im that tree who is alone and the most greener compared to those brown forest

In my mind, I could sense their roots under the soil, creeping in helical tangles of ever-increasing complexity outward and in all directions—out beyond the perimeter of the Helsingør Wood, out below Yami’s Under City, out along the banks of the river, out to the nearest coast and thereupon out into the sea; the roots crept down further along the continental shelf, downward into the abysses, downward into the ocean floor, burrowing under the corals and under trenches, and then back up again to sprout in the darkened forest on a foreign continent: all the trees of the world now had conjoined roots, for they were now of one conjoined consciousness!

Indeed, he could not be long in discovering that people beyond a suspicion of unbalance, or not obviously coveting the moment's arrest of attention gained them by their statements, never had experience with or knowledge of the restless dead. Slowly accepting this as evidence that no such things existed, Mr. Lecky found terrors deeper, and to him more plausible, to fill that unoccupied place - the simple sense of himself alone, and, not unassociated with it, the conception of a homicidal maniac quietly pursuing him. The first was exemplified by chance solitude in what he had considered deep woods. No part in it was played by natural dismay which he might have felt at finding himself lost, and none by any tangible suggestion of danger. Mr. Lecky could not even remember where or when it was. Long ago, under a seamless gray sky which would probably end with snow; in an autumnal silence free from birds, unmoved by the least breath of wind, he had come to be walking at random impulse. Leaves, yellow, tan, drifted deep and loose over the difficulties of an uneven hillside. His feet crashed and crackled in them. He was not going anywhere. He had nothing in mind. It might have been this receptive vacancy of thought which let him, little by little, grow aware of a menace. The unnatural light leaf-buried ground, the low dark sky, the solitary noise of his unskilled progress - none of them was good. He began to notice that though the fall of leaves left an apparent bright openness, in reality it merely pushed to a distance the point at which the woods became as impenetrable as a wall. He walked more and more slowly, listening, hearing nothing; looking, seeing nothing. Soon he stopped, for he was not going any farther. Standing in the deep leaves beneath trees bare and practically dead in the catalepsy of impending winter, he knew that he did not want to be here. A great evil - no more to be named than, met, to be escaped - waited fairly close. So he left. He got out of those woods onto an open road where he need not watch for anything he could not see.

In the evenings, Sam performs exercises to prepare his body for love-making with Franz. He practices kissing (something he’d once hated) by smooching deer lips, antelope ears, frog anuses, and the great, whiskered muzzles of sleeping bison. He improves his petting skills by necking with juniper bushes and pine tree trunks with such passion that the bark snaps and sap runs, or with such tenderness that the whole forest goes silent and swallows nest in his hair.

In the thick of the woods with a carpet of matted needles, the sharp scent of pine, and the fragrant breezes of a winter wind, she was home.

It is from small seeds that big forests rise.

I prefer feeling insignificant," said Jess. "I don't believe that." "I didn't say worthless, I said insignificant, as in the grand scheme of things." "But why?" "Because humans have such a complex. We're so self-involved. You have to get out to a place like this to remember how small humanity really is." And Jess was right. Numbers didn't matter here. Money didn't count, and all the words and glances, the quick exchanges that built or tore down reputations had no meaning in this place. The air was moist. Fallen leaves, spreading branches, and crisscrossing roots wicked water, so that the trees seemed to drink the misty air. Jess said, "All your worries fade away, because..." Emily finished her thought. "The trees put everything in perspective.

I sat alone in that stupid forest asking God to tell me what to do.

I think people who don't know the woods very well sometimes imagine it as a kind of undifferentiated mass of greenery, an endless continuation of the wall of trees they see lining the road. And I think they wonder how it could hold anyone's interest for very long, being all so much the same. But in truth I have a list of a hundred places in my own town I haven't been yet. Quaking bogs to walk on; ponds I've never seen in the fall (I've seen them in the summer - but that's a different pond). That list gets longer every year, the more I learn, and doubtless it will grow until the day I die. So many glades; so little time.

It is easier for a lion to rule a jungle than for sheep to rule a forest.

It's when the seed grows up that it is known as a tree. Nobody calls the "seedlings" as "trees" and no seedling is ever useful because it doesn't produce fruits! You got to grow up!

It is raining! In other words little poems are coming down from the sky! Nature is literature! Sun is a fable; forest is a story; birds are a theatre; mountains are a myth; rain is a poem! Nature is literature!

It's a Christmas miracle. I had no tree. Now I have a forest.

It only takes one seed to grow a forest.

I took to the Kingswood the midsummer after the Dame died. I did not swear a vow, but I kept to myself just as strictly, living like a beast in the forest from one midsummer to the next, without fire or iron or the taste of meat. I lived as prey, and I learned from the dogs how to run, from the hare how to hide in the bracken, and from the deer how to go hungry. In sorrow and pride I exiled myself to Kingswood. I shunned fire for I feared the kingsmen would hunt me down, and so by the way of cold and hunger I came near to refusing life itself. I never thought to anger or please a god by it.

It was almost twilight, long shadows of oaks and chestnuts crossing the unpaved road leading away from the village. This part of England had not yet been deforested to feed the fleets and factories that had sprung up in the major cities. The woodlands were still pristine and other-worldly, scored with small cartways half-buried by overhanging branches thick with leaves. In the gathering shade the trees were wreathed in vapor and mystery, like sentinels for a world of druids and warlocks and unicorns. A brown owl glided over the lane, mothlike in the darkening sky.

I used to be a wanderess without roots – discontent and bereft of belonging and then he took me to The Last Best Place where I was touched and warmed through. Never before have I felt the breath-taking spirit of the frontier as distinctly as I do here and never before have I felt so at home where all things magnificent are made more so by inspired calm of earthy humility.

micel walcan wolde we do from that daeg micel walcan in the great holt the brunnesweald but though we walced for wices months years though this holt becum ham to me for so long still we did not see efen a small part of it so great was this deop eald wud. so great was it that many things dwelt there what was not cnawan to man but only in tales and in dreams. wihts for sure the boar the wulf the fox efen the bera it was saed by sum made this holt their ham. col beorners and out laws was in here as they was in all wuds but deop deoper efen than this was the eald wihts what was in angland before men here i is meanan the aelfs and the dweorgs and ents who is of the holt who is the treows them selfs. my grandfather he telt me he had seen an aelf at dusc one daeg he seen it flittan betweon stoccs of treows thynne it was and grene and its eages was great and blaec and had no loc of man in them. well he was blithe to lif after that for oft it is saed that to see an aelf is to die for they sceots their aelf straels at thu and aelfscot is a slow death

I was recently inside a hospital that had gone wireless and it was a forest of microwave antennas! It is sad that the medical profession is in the process of becoming expert on microwave radiation sickness due to willfully inducing it into their own staff!

Merlin Speaks: Ô mighty trees of Avalon release sap and seeds into hearts and minds So Arthur’s dream can reveal echoes of futures past So Camelot’s glory is forever ingrained in the rich forests and mountains’ mysterious valleys where a once and future King lowered his sword and lay in the arms of his sweet Lady of Forests and Lakes

I was conscious of that moment of stepping into the woods and leaving everything else behind. That one instant when all the sounds of people, of traffic, of doors opening and closing, were suddenly gone, swallowed up by trees and ferns. It was like a curtain falling on a stage, and I waited for that moment every time. My heart opened just a little bit wider.

Love is a forest fire ignited by a firefly

Lying on a soft bed of moss viewing the cobalt blue sky painted with thick impastoed layers of clouds framed sumptuously with swaying trees and dancing leaves is the best way to view nature’s museum.

Mr Tumnus does look as camp as fuck with his little scarf tied jauntily around his neck. I suppose it isn’t outside the realms of possibility that he’d just been off cottaging with some centaurs in the forest.

Nature will always be nature.

Mysteriously, almost unaccountably, my family had ended up in the trees, sort of like the Swiss Family Robinson.

Neptune's bounty was followed by that of Diana. I had staged a "hunt" to take place while the diners ate. Several of the bigger slaves were dressed like bears, and hunters with bows chased them playfully around the couches while nymphs tried to hinder their progress. They ran carefully around the slaves serving trays of pork cracklings, mushrooms marinated in wine, stuffed dormice, and figs soaked in milk and honey.

Now fairy stories are at risk too, like the forests. Padraic Column has suggested that artificial lighting dealt them a mortal wound: when people could read and be productive after dark, something fundamental changed, and there was no longer need or space for the ancient oral tradition. The stories were often confined to books, which makes the text static, and they were handed over to children.

Never despise a seed; one day it will rise and bloom into a forest.

Not enough youths fighting windmills. And the old are fearful, jaded or dead. Do not ask me what to do. I am just as cowardly as you. And do not tell me it is enough to speak the truth; that it is bravery enough. Every mountain leveled to the ground, every forest burned, every man, woman, and child who lost their shanties to arsonist fires were defended to the heavens—with words.

Nothing can match the joy of a forest in the morning.

Observe the beauty of forest.

Och med en annan sak blir jag aldrig färdig: Att draga mig tillbaka och sitta i ensamheten i skogen och ha det gott och mörkt omkring mig. Det är den sista glädjen. Det är det höga, det religiösa i ensamheten och mörkret, som gör att man har behov av dem, det är däremot icke därför man söker sig bort från de andra, att det bara är sig själv man härdar ut med, nej, nej. Men det är det mystiska, att allt brusar fjärran och dock så nära en, man sitter i mitten av en allestädes närvarande. Det är väl Gud. Det är väl en själv som är en del av allt.

Old is the tree and the fruit good, Very old and thick the wood. Woodman, is your courage stout? Beware! the root is wrapped about Your mother's heart, your father's bones; And like the mandrake comes with groans.

Outside, under the marquee of the hotel, he stood a moment as he did each night beneath the marquee of the Hotel Hyperion, while he decided what direction to take, what to do. And suddenly, realizing it was not the Hotel Hyperion, that the circumstances were quite different, he felt loneliness spring up like a dark forest all around him. The odd thing was, he felt no impulse to hurry after her, to find her somehow. What would he have to offer her except the history of weakness, loneliness, and inadequacy, the decline and fall of himself? He himself was the core of the loneliness around him, and its core was inadequacy. He was inadequate even in love.

One might say I had decided to marry the silence of the forest. The sweet dark warmth of the whole world will have to be my wife. Out of the heart of that dark warmth comes the secret that is heard only in silence, but it is the root of all the secrets that are whispered by all the lovers in their beds all over the world. So perhaps I have an obligation to preserve the stillness, the silence, the poverty, the virginal point of pure nothingness which is at the center of all other loves. I attempt to cultivate this plant without contempt in the middle of the night and water it with psalms and prophecies in silence. It becomes the most rare of all the trees in the garden, at once the primordial paradise tree, the axis mundi, the cosmic axle, and the Cross. Nulla silva talem profert. There is only one such tree. It cannot be multiplied. It is not interesting.

Outside, I could smell the Zebra. Even if for some reason I stopped feeling cold or hot or rain or sun, I bet I could close my eyes and still tell which season I was in just by the smell of the trees and dirt there. Spring was sweet mud and flowers. Fall has a kind of moldy edge to it, and winter was all dust and bark. As for summer, the Zebra carried a mossy, thick aroma full of baking leaves and oozing sap, which I guessed was its growing smell.

... or in the forest; mingling various walks with the splash and murmur of the waves, and the solemn wind-anthem among the tree-tops.

:Paintings are easy to see," he said after a moment. "Open, presented flat to the eye. Words are not easy. Words have to be discovered, deep in their pages, deciphered, translated, read. Words are symbols to be encoded, their letters trees in a forest, enmeshed, their tangled meanings never finally picked apart.

Plant a tree in your lifetime.

People of deserts cannot know the importance of forests; to know this, one must first have sweet memories spent in the forests!

Planting a tree is the easiest way to align yourself with the cosmic rhythm.