Rustling Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
the-rustling-leaves-is-like-low-hymn-to-nature-james-ellis
the-harvester-was-rustling-autumn-leaves-there-one-minute-gone-next-jolene-haley
dream-song-in-heavens-a-noise-like-rustling-trees-frances-densmore
i-like-my-coffee-like-i-like-myself-making-rustling-noises-inside-burlap-bag-josh-stern
her-beauty-climbed-rolling-slope-it-came-into-room-rustling-ghostlike-through-curtains-f-scott-fitzgerald
boredom-is-the-dream-bird-that-hatches-the-egg-of-experience-a-rustling-in-the-leaves-drives-him-away
a-longing-to-wander-tears-my-heart-when-i-hear-trees-rustling-in-wind-at-evening-hermann-hesse
what-is-it-about-beautiful-sunny-afternoon-with-birds-singing-wind-rustling-through-leaves-that-makes-you-want-to-get-drunk-jack-handy
precisely-least-softest-lightest-lizards-rustling-breath-flash-moment-little-makes-way-best-happiness-friedrich-nietzsche
o-this-lifeis-nobler-than-attending-for-checkricher-than-doing-nothing-for-bribeprouder-than-rustling-in-unpaidfor-silk-william-shakespeare
she-pronounced-word-married-as-if-her-voice-caressed-it-it-seemed-rustling-covert-leading-to-enchanted-glades-edith-wharton
i-rush-to-add-that-i-find-web-infinitely-useful-for-rustling-up-information-settling-arguments-locating-legends-rock-stars-adam-gopnik
dry-leaves-upon-wall-which-flap-like-rustling-wings-seek-escape-a-single-frosted-cluster-on-grape-still-hangs-that-is-all-sarah-chauncey-woolsey
today-i-have-much-to-do-i-must-kill-memory-once-for-all-i-must-turn-my-soul-to-stone-i-must-learn-to-live-again-unless-summers-ardent-rustling-is-anna-akhmatova
for-ever-our-thoughtful-hearts-repeaton-fields-triumph-dirges-defeatand-still-we-turn-on-galadays-to-treadamong-rustling-memories-dead-henry-van-dyke
bring-awareness-to-many-subtle-sounds-nature-the-rustling-leaves-in-wind-raindrops-falling-the-humming-insect-the-first-birdsong-at-dawn-eckhart-tolle
glib-tongues-frill-up-their-hash-knowledge-for-mankind-in-polished-speeches-that-are-no-more-than-vaporous-winds-rustling-fallen-leaves-in-autumn-johann-wolfgang-von-goethe
jo-laid-rustling-sheets-together-with-careful-hand-as-one-might-shut-covers-lovely-romance-which-holds-reader-fast-till-end-comes-he-finds-himself-alone-in-workday-world-again-lo
we-let-boat-drift-i-set-out-for-pond-crossing-ravine-where-seedling-pines-start-up-like-sparks-between-disused-rails-boston-maine-the-grass-in-field-would-make-second-crop-if-ear
his-new-friends-did-not-perhaps-realize-overpowering-effect-sudden-change-upon-this-northernbred-man-effects-moonlight-soft-tradewind-life-love-which-surrounded-him-here-love-whi
From the vast, invisible ocean of moonlight overhead fell, here and here, a slender, broken stream that seemed to plash against the intercepting branches and trickle to earth, forming small white pools among the clumps of laurel. But these leaks were few and served only to accentuate the blackness of his environment, which his imagination found it easy to people with all manner of unfamiliar shapes, menacing, uncanny, or merely grotesque. He to whom the portentous conspiracy of night and solitude and silence in the heart of a great forest is not an unknown experience needs not to be told what another world it all is - how even the most commonplace and familiar objects take on another character. The trees group themselves differently; they draw closer together, as if in fear. The very silence has another quality than the silence of the day. And it is full of half-heard whispers, whispers that startle - ghosts of sounds long dead. There are living sounds, too, such as are never heard under other conditions: notes of strange night birds, the cries of small animals in sudden encounters with stealthy foes, or in their dreams, a rustling in the dead leaves - it may be the leap of a wood rat, it may be the footstep of a panther. What caused the breaking of that twig? What the low, alarmed twittering in that bushful of birds? There are sounds without a name, forms without substance, translations in space of objects which have not been seen to move, movements wherein nothing is observed to change its place. Ah, children of the sunlight and the gaslight, how little you know of the world in which you live! ("A Tough Tussle")

Ambrose Bierce
from-vast-invisible-ocean-moonlight-overhead-fell-here-here-slender-broken-stream-that-seemed-to-plash-against-intercepting-branches-trickle-to-earth-forming-small-white-pools-am
For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow. Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life. A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail. A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live. When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all. A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one's suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother. So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.

Hermann Hesse
for-me-trees-have-always-been-most-penetrating-preachers-i-revere-them-when-they-live-in-tribes-families-in-forests-groves-and-even-more-i-revere-them-when-they-stand-alone-they-