Peace is present when things form part of a whole greater than their sum, as the diverse minerals in the ground collect to become the tree.
A tree, young or old, if admired, remains a definite vision, and when after long absence it is visited again, the meeting place is approached with feelings of pleasure and curiosity as to how one's friend had fared, even with thoughts as to what changes may come to tree or visitor since first they met; this may seem like a foolish sentiment - perhaps it is. But, after all, sentiment is mingled with most that's best in life.
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.
A choir of seedlings arching their necks out of rotted tree stumps, sucking life out of death. I am the forest's conscience, but remember, the forest eats itself and lives forever.
For each of us has a perch on the tree. After we are gone, that perch is marked by a notch, permanent, yes, but with its edges muting over time, assuming the tree is ever growing. Years from now someone can see that you were here, or there, and although you had little conception or care for the wider branching, in the next life there might be a sigh of wonder at how quietly flourishing it all was, if never majestic.
Mischief and malice grow on the same branch of the tree of evil.
Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.
If you deconstruct Greece, you will in the end see an olive tree, a grapevine, and a boat remain. That is, with as much, you reconstruct her.
Be like a tree. The tree gives shade even to him who cuts off its boughs.
. . . you look like you fell out of a crazy tree and hit every branch on the way down.
I don't know, maybe I made it up. Anyway, it's an arbo-tree-ist, somebody who knows about trees.
The lizard that jumped from a high Iroko tree to the ground said he would praise himself if no-one else did.
The apple tree never asks the beech how he shall grow, nor the lion, the horse, how he shall take his prey.
Hang there like a fruit, my soul, Till the tree die! -Posthumus Leonatus Act V, Scene V
remember the golden apple-trees; O, do not pity them, as you watch them drop one by one, for they fall exhausted, numb, blind but in certain ecstasy, for theirs is the hunger for Paradise.
A forest of all manner of trees is poor, if not disagreeable, in effect; a mass of one species of tree is sublime.
Come, Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest. " And the boy did. And the tree was happy.
I stand on the corner, pretending I am a tree.
This feels good, being back in Michigan. . . You know, the trees are the right height.
Every tree is an angel!