Leaves Quotes
Leaves Quote of the day
Fallen leaves lying on the grass in the November sun bring more happiness than the daffodils.
Green leaves on a dead tree is our epitaph-green leaves, dear reader, on a dead tree.
NOT I - NOT ANYONE else, can travel that road for you, You must travel it for yourself.
Here then at long last is my darkness. No cry of light, no glimmer, not even the faintest shard of hope to break free across the hold.
Stray birds of summer come to my window to sing and fly away. And yellow leaves of autumn, which have no songs, flutter and fall there with a sigh.
Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods and day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.
Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you/ That you may be my poem/ I whisper with my lips close to your ear/ I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.
I am too not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
Little solace comes to those who grieve when thoughts keep drifting as walls keep shifting and this great blue world of ours seems a house of leaves moments before the wind.
The great city is that which has the greatest man or woman: if it be a few ragged huts, it is still the greatest city in the whole world.
Shall I not have intelligence with the earth? Am I not partly leaves and vegetable mould myself.
somewhere within sight of the tree of poetry that is eternity wearing the green leaves of time .
O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?
In every change, in every falling leaf there is some pain, some beauty. And that's the way new leaves grow.
The proof of a poet is that his country absorbs him as affectionately as he has absorbed it.
The once red leaf, the last of its clan, that dances as often as dance it can.
He types his labored column - weary drudge! Senile fudge and solemn: spare, editor, to condemn these dry leaves of his autumn.
It is no discredit to Walt Whitman that he wrote Leaves of Grass, only that he did not burn it afterwards.
Bring awareness to the many subtle sounds of nature - The rustling of leaves in the wind, Raindrops falling, The humming of an insect, The first birdsong at dawn.
Old age, calm, expanded, broad with the haughty breadth of the universe, old age flowing free with the delicious near-by freedom of death.
How do you see those tree?... They are yellow. Well then put down yellow. And that shadow is rather blue. So render it with pure ultramarine. Those red leaves? Use vermillion.
I know there will be spring, as surely as the birds know it when they see above the snow two tiny, quivering green leaves. Spring cannot fail us.
This great blue world of ours is but a house of leaves, moments before the wind.
The customs and fashions of men change like leaves on the bough, some of which go and others come.
Oh, would that my mind could let fall its dead ideas, as the tree does its withered leaves!
Stranger, if you passing meet me and desire to speak to me, why should you not speak to me? And why should I not speak to you?