Lucy Maud Montgomery Quotes

If you were a tree, what kind would you be?

Just being friends with people now for over 15 years, you realize what we all came out of. What we came out of was the intense feeling of growing up. It sounds kind of cliché, but it's true.

With everybody that I've met, there's always been something I've learned about them that I like.

I have a deep and pathological obsession with trees and plants.

Definitely the life and the camaraderie with the other players is something I appreciate a lot more now. I was very shy when I was younger and didn't always enjoy the lifestyle.

As I get older - and wiser of course - I appreciate natural beauty in a different way.

She thought of how precious it was to be able to know another person over many years. There was incomparable richness in it.

I am struck by the fact that the more slowly trees grow at first, the sounder they are at the core, and I think that the same is true of human beings.

The wonder is that we can see these trees and not wonder more.

My later years are my treasure years.

How do the stems connect to the roots?' 'Where is the mist coming from?' 'Why does one tree seem darker than another?' These questions are implicitly asked and answered in the process of sketching.

Only the soldier pines and sentinels still showed green; the broadleaf trees had donned mantles of russet and gold, or else uncloaked themselves to scratch against the sky with branches brown and bare.

If you've ever come across a tree that you've lived with for many years and then one day it's blown over, there's incredible shock and violence about that.

It takes some little time to accept and realize the fact that while you have been growing old, your friends have not been standing still, in that matter.

Not perhaps until later life, until the follies, passions, and selfishness of youth have died out, do we . . . recognize the the inestimable blessing, the responsibility awful as sweet, of possessing or of being a friend.

Who sows a field, or trains a flower, Or plants at tree, is more than all.

The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said; The recent buds relax and spread, Their greenness is a kind of grief. Is it that they are born again And we grow old? No, they die too. Their yearly trick of looking new Is written down in rings of grain. Yet still the unresting castles thresh In fullgrown thickness every May. Last year is dead, they seem to say, Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

All the trees are losing their leaves, and not one of them is worried.

Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze.

Maples are such sociable trees ... They're always rustling and whispering to you.

Any fine morning, a power saw can fell a tree that took a thousand years to grow.

When I was young I asked more of people than they could give: everlasting friendship, endless feeling. Now I know to ask less of them than they can give: a straightforward companionship. And their feelings, their friendship, their generous actions seem in my eyes to be wholly miraculous: a consequence of grace alone.

The generation of mankind is like the generation of leaves. The wind scatters the leaves on the ground, but the living tree burgeons with leaves again in the spring.

There is something nobly simple and pure in a taste for the cultivation of forest trees.

Hard to find anything lovelier than a tree. They grow at right angles to a tangent of the nominal sphere of the Earth.