Natures Beauty Quotes

“I still dream in pictures and color, always the world of my childhood. I see the purple Judas trees at Easter lighting up the roadsides and terraces of the town. Ochre cliffs made of cinnamon powder. Autumn clouds rolling along the ground of the hills, and the patchwork of wet oak leaves on the grass. The shape of a rose petal. And my parents' faces, which will never grow any older.
"But it is strange how scent brings it all back too. I only have to smell certain aromas, and I am back in a certain place with a certain feeling."
The comforting past smelled of heliotrope and cherry and sweet almond biscuits: close-up smells, flowers you had to put your nose to as the sight faded from your eyes. The scents of that childhood past had already begun to slip away: Maman's apron with blotches of game stew; linen pressed with faded lavender; the sheep in the barn. The present, or what had so very recently been the present, was orange blossom infused with hope.”
― Deborah Lawrenson, The Sea Garden

“The path remained steady for a time before dwindling down to dusty silt. The sky opened above as trees fell away on either side. To their right, the land dipped down into a tiny, almost impossibly beautiful valley. A stream ran through its lowest point, its bank lined in pink lupine. Before that, tall, dark green grass sparkled with white flashes in the sunlight. Late season dandelions and breathy, tiny white flowers on slender stems were avoided by bees, while purple thistles and asters thronged with them.
"I could do with a little bit of a break," she said, looking longingly at the soft, moss-covered braes above the tinkling water.
The prince made a big show of cautiously surveying the scene. Aurora Rose hid a smile. Nothing seemed harmful. "All right," he finally said. "My face could definitely do with a wash. Feels all dusty."
They stepped down into the quiet valley that smelled like all of summer crushed into a single flower.”
― Liz Braswell, Once Upon a Dream

“And there were so many places to go. Thickets of bramble. Fallen trees. Ferns, and violets, and gorse, paths all lined with soft green moss. And in the very heart of the wood, there was a clearing, with a circle of stones, and an old well in the middle, next to a big dead oak tree, and everything- fallen branches, standing stones, even the well, with its rusty pump- draped and festooned and piled knee-high with ruffles and flounces of strawberries, with blackbirds picking over the fruit, and the scent like all of summer.
It wasn't like the rest of the farm. Narcisse's farm is very neat, with everything set out in its place. A little field for sunflowers: one for cabbages; one for squash; one for Jerusalem artichokes. Apple trees to one side; peaches and plums to the other. And in the polytunnels, there were daffodils, tulips, freesias; and in season, lettuce, tomatoes, beans. All neatly planted, in rows, with nets to keep the birds from stealing them.
But here there were no nets, or polytunnels, or windmills to frighten away the birds. Just that clearing of strawberries, and the old well in the circle of stones. There was no bucket in the well. Just the broken pump, and the trough, and a grate to cover the hole, which was very deep, and not quite straight, and filled with ferns and that swampy smell. And if you put your eye to the grate, you could see a roundel of sky reflected in the water, and little pink flowers growing out from between the cracks in the old stone. And there was a kind of draught coming up from under the ground, as if something was hiding there and breathing, very quietly.”
― Joanne Harris, The Strawberry Thief

“It rained in Hampshire yesterday, a soft autumn storm that brought down hardly any leaves. The dahlias are no longer in stem, and frost has withered the chrysanthemums, but the air smells divine, like old leaves and wet bark, and ripe apples. Have you ever noticed that each month has its own smell? May and October are the nicest-smelling months, in my opinion.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Love in the Afternoon

“Some of the most important moments in life are those spent alone, in quiet communion with nature.”
― Bhuwan Thapaliya

“At the lawn's edge, a grand set of graystone stairs led into Lady Ashbury’s rose garden. Pink blooms hugged the trellises, alive with the warm drone of diligent bees hovering about their yellow hearts.
I passed beneath the arbor, unlatched the kissing gate and started down the Long Walk: a stretch of gray cobblestones set amongst a carpet of white alyssum. Halfway along, tall hornbeam hedges gave way to the miniature yew that bordered the Egeskov Garden. I blinked as a couple of topiaries came to life, then smiled at myself and the pair of indignant ducks that had wandered up from the lake and now stood regarding me with shiny black eyes.
At the end of the Egeskov Garden was the second kissing gate, the forgotten sister (for there is always a forgotten sister), victim of the wiry jasmine tendrils. On the other side lay the Icarus fountain, and beyond, at the lake’s edge, the boathouse.”
― Kate Morton, The House at Riverton

“Earth laughs in flowers”
― Ralph Waldo Emerson, Hamatreya

“Nature has painted beauty across the earth; may human hearts forever reflect its grace.”
― Bhuwan Thapaliya

“The sky is scarred by a thousand clouds, yet no one calls it ugly. No one looks at the jagged streaks of lightning and recoils. They marvel. They watch in awe, breathless, as if destruction itself were beautiful when it belonged to nature.”
― Alma Brooke, Four of a Kind

“I stand upon a windswept ridge,
listening to the murmurs of the wind.
I waver and merge with the light and shadows,
becoming one with everything surrounding me.”
― Bhuwan Thapaliya

“I wrote until after dark this afternoon, and then went out to walk in the early moonlight, down the street by the Academy, and even up on the hill back of the Academy itself. There was a great grey cloud in the west, but all the rest of the sky was clear, and it was very beautiful. When one goes out of doors and wanders about alone at such a time, how wonderfully one becomes part of nature, like an atom of quick-silver against a great mass. I hardly keep my separate consciousness, but go on and on until the mood has spent itself.”
― Sarah Orne Jewett, Letters of Sarah Orne Jewett

“Expectations, it's hard to walk without falling into this mistake. Love is not an expectation or a condition. It is a state of mind towards nature. The song and its singer. The poetry and its poet. The painting and its painter. The human soul and its environment.”
― Raydrich Rocha, Consciência: Delírios e Galopes

“Pretensões e expectativas, difícil caminhar sem incorrer nestes erros. O amor não é uma expectativa ou uma condição. É um estado de espírito para com a natureza. A música e o seu cantor. A poesia e o seu poeta. A pintura e o seu pintor. A alma do homem e o seu meio.”
― Raydrich Rocha, Consciência: Delírios e Galopes

“Springtime in Turkey and the South Caucasus is idealized for good reason. Valleys are carpeted with wildflowers and the land is one of bewildering variety. Apricot trees start frothing white blossoms, soft green buds begin appearing on willow branches and the quince orchards turn pink with flowers.
And as soon as herbs come to life, imbued with the spirit of the green blooming hillsides, they are greeted and rallied to the table. Dill and parsley fill freshly griddled flatbreads--- qutabs in Azerbaijan, jingalov hats in Armenia, gözleme in Turkey--- often elevated by little more than a generous brushing of first-rate butter. In Georgia, coriander soup, thickened with potato, is served with dark rye bread. In Turkey, fresh mint is mixed freely with cucumbers, yoghurt and water, or with pureed broad beans. In Turkish, I am told, there is even a verb used for chopping herbs, kıymak.”
― Caroline Eden, Cold Kitchen: A Year of Culinary Travels

“The following day we walked again. Hiking through Truso Gorge, we followed a track lined with Siberian irises, raising their purple petals to the sun, and Prophet's Flowers, a relative of borage that is native to the Caucasus, their blooms strikingly yellow with maroon polka dots. Bubbling, iron-rich waters stained the rocks bronze, a tell-tale sign of the dozens of mineral springs buried underground. Butterflies flitted, wings shining orange and pink, past flocks of sheep and their canine guards.”
― Caroline Eden, Cold Kitchen: A Year of Culinary Travels

“After this, when I have a dream of a certain kind...a golden-green, crimson-veined dream...a very dream of dreams...I shall please my fancy with the belief that it came from my secret dell of birches and was born of some mystic union between the slenderest, airiest of the sisters and the crooning brook. I love to sit there and listen to the silence of the grove.”
― Lucy Maud Montgomery, Anne of Windy Poplars

“The sun had begun to wink behind the trees, but pockets of other light burst all around. Lanterns hung from tree branches; there was a firepit in the center of the lawn; and in the pond, the silky water shimmered with little full moons floating on the surface. No, not moons--- orbs. Such simple sources of light, but Rose was struck by how they looked like they'd dipped down from the sky, unwilling to miss the festivities.
It was a lush, clandestine beauty, mixed with the unsupervised cacophony of the people disrupting it. The word "decadence" came to mind. Rose loved that in the middle of it all Hart seemed oblivious to it, stuck in tour-guide mode. "This is my favorite tree on the property," he said.
Rose also loved that he had a favorite tree. Its curlicue branches plumed outward like long hair in water, and in certain spots, its leaves drooped and swept over the ground. "It's a one-hundred-year-old weeping hemlock," Hart said. "One of the oldest hemlocks this side of the Western Hemisphere, and the estate's namesake."
They walked beneath the canopy, where string lights and pearly garlands hung like so many gaudy necklaces on a dowager duchess. Rose had never paid much attention to trees, but even she couldn't deny this one's majesty.”
― Goldy Moldavsky, Of Earthly Delights

“There is soft ground underfoot, spongy and damp, the river is fast-flowing and I am careful to steer clear of the slippery bank. Lichen is everywhere; even the youngest trees are encrusted with it. Here it is as abundant as I have ever seen it, coating almost every trunk and twig with a soft green crust.
We had smoked salmon for breakfast, with sticky bread like wet peat and cloudberry, juice the color of apricots. A meal so simple and perfect, a breakfast steeped in the spirit of the place. Here in the woods I hear gushing water and birdsong, but little else. Just the crackle of twigs, the occasional drip, drip of raindrops from the trees.”
― Nigel Slater, A Thousand Feasts: Small Moments of Joy… A Memoir of Sorts

“Flowers are meant to adorn. The plants or humans, it is much the same. None mind, so long as you don't take too many.”
― Robert Jordan, The Eye of the World

“watched the clouds bruise dark purple over the treetops”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

“Shiuli blooms in the rain,
white petals kissing mud,
like forgotten prayers
on a monk’s lips. I stand barefoot,
letting the downpour
wash the city from my skin.
You are not here,
yet your scent
lingers in every drop”
― Avijeet Das, A Handful of Shuilis

“Deep in the woods, beside the swift-running stream, I stood listening, until the faint rustle of leaves reached me—soft songs drifting on the breeze, perhaps a quiet greeting.”
― Bhuwan Thapaliya

“Though the world is vast, even the smallest light can leave a lasting glow. This is the true beauty of our world.”
― Bhuwan Thapaliya

“As they drove onto the bridge that would bring them round to the north side of the station, the phrase "purple hills and crystal waters," an old poetic shorthand for Kyoto's scenic beauty, came to Takayuki's mind. The hilly Higashiyama area to the east was veiled in a purplish spring haze, and chances were good that the waters of the Kamogawa were looking pretty crystalline too.
Good old Rai San'yo, he thought, recalling the poet who'd coined the phrase.”
― Jesse Kirkwood, The Menu of Happiness

“I’ve heard a million beautiful songs, but it’s the quiet hum of nature that stirs my soul.”
― Bhuwan Thapaliya

“I dream of transforming my neighborhood into a garden, where flowers blossom not only in the soil but in the hearts of those around me. A space where nature and kindness grow side by side, and every corner reflects the beauty of harmony.”
― Bhuwan Thapaliya

“The sun rises not because we demand it, but because its light was promised long before the night began. In the silence between frost and dawn, trust the gravity that has already bent the sky toward morning.”
― Massimo Rigotti

“The hills surrounding the cabin and fields turned colors, beginning with the bright red pops of leggy sassafras trees, bushy sumac and Virginia creeper vines that gave way to golden hickory, river birch and--- near the creek--- stately yellow cottonwoods. The oaks stubbornly held their leaves, yielding only a buttery brown before turning the color of old soil.
Likewise, the scrubby evergreens began to take on an orange cast as the fall wore on. And the cedar berries, which first appeared as clusters of green in compact cones, began ripening to the dusty deep hue of a blueberry.”
― Michelle Collins Anderson, The Moonshine Women

“She is beautiful - Mother Nature; date her”
― Eso-kaluhawe

“I never feel like I have to catch sunsets. It almost feels like they're more inviting and welcoming this way, slowly happening so everyone has a chance to witness it.”
― Nikki Navarro, At Least One Day