Mattie Ross: [cutting the rope on the tree] Why did they hang him so high? Rooster Cogburn: I do not know. Possibly in the belief it'd make him more dead.
Nature is impersonal, awe-inspiring, elegant, eternal. It's geometrically perfect. It's tiny and gigantic. You can travel far to be in a beautiful natural setting, or you can observe it in your backyard - or, in my case, in the trees lining New York ...
When one's dead, one's dead... This squirrel will become earth all in his time. And still later on, there'll grow new trees from him, with new squirrels skipping about in them. Do you think that's so very sad?
I wonder if anyone else has an ear so tuned and sharpened as I have, to detect the music, not of the spheres, but of earth, subtleties of major and minor chord that the wind strikes upon the tree branches. Have you ever heard the earth breathe?
Fruit in the morning is such a big joy for me. I like to grab fruit from the tree, et cetera. I don't feel that way with vegetables. Fruit ,you can eat it at any time, any moment, in any type of situation. I like everything about fruit; I like the co...
My vanity was flattered by having been mistaken for our revered sovereign. I ordered a banquet to be got ready for the following evening, under the trees before my house, and invited the whole town.
I am going to try to pay attention to the spring. I am going to look around at all the flowers, and look up at the hectic trees. I am going to close my eyes and listen.
Victory, is like a boxer that hangs his gloves, after the consecutive losses; sometimes walking away is what builds character, than the actual fight. As humble fruit on a tree that falls to the ground and rots, never finding appreciation in the taste...
Silence It has a sound, a fullness. It's heavy with sigh of tree, and space between breaths. It's ripe with pause between birdsong and crash of surf. It's golden they say. But no one tells us it's addictive.
'A Tree Grows in Brooklyn' by Betty Smith is one of my favorites. Even though it doesn't have any monsters or crazy fantasy in it, it's such a raw story, and I can really relate to the characters. I think it's a beautiful story.
I can be a woodsman if need be. I grew up very close to some forest, and I spent a lot of my formative years up and down trees, fooling around in the woods. I'm no stranger to that sort of landscape.
I have a firm belief in such things as, you know, the water, the Earth, the trees and sky. And I'm wondering, it is increasingly difficult to find those elements in nature, because it's nature I believe in rather than some spiritual thing.
In my poetry a rhyme Would seem to me almost insolent. Inside me contend Delight at the apple tree in blossom And horror at the house-painter’s speeches. But only the second Drives me to my desk.
Censorship is saying: 'I'm the one who says the last sentence. Whatever you say, the conclusion is mine.' But the internet is like a tree that is growing. The people will always have the last word - even if someone has a very weak, quiet voice. Such ...
You should never turn down the offer of another man’s story,’ the fox persisted, moving off a little further into the trees ahead. ‘Stories are the only thing that separates us from the animals after all.
If you can look at one of these waves and you don't believe that there's something greater than we are, then you've got some serious analyzing to do and you should go sit under a tree for a very long time.
Do not write if there is no tremendous urge to do so. At the heart, there must be an inspiration or muse or one of those old-fashioned things. Else, why bore yourself, destroy other people's interest and kill trees?
He called her a melon, a pineapple, an olive tree, an emerald, and a fox in the snow all in the space of three seconds; he did not know whether he had heard her, tasted her, seen her, or all three together.
You must not know too much or be too precise or scientific about birds and trees and flowers and watercraft; a certain free-margin , or even vagueness - ignorance, credulity - helps your enjoyment of these things.
To A Squirrel At Kyle-Na-No Come play with me; Why should you run Through the shaking tree As though I'd a gun To strike you dead? When all I would do Is to scratch your head And let you go.
Tomorrow, a thought not in mind of most intimates Not in vain, not in every censure, not a scarf on a tree Tomorrow, is a clock, nothing more, A cup of tea or something smaller, maybe It’s something we forgot about with further bills and other memo...
