Not even the Emerald Isle itself was as green as the grass that grew in Ebbets Field.
There is no substitute for a real location when you're trying to shoot the jungle. You can't just go anywhere. You've got to go where it's lush and green and there really is those mountain ranges, the trees and the ocean.
The country up here is beautiful; everything green and pleasant; and if you saw it now, you would not believe that in two months' time it could have such a parched and barren appearance as it will then assume.
Yosemite Valley, to me, is always a sunrise, a glitter of green and golden wonder in a vast edifice of stone and space.
Green calm below, blue quietness above.
And wild-scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale.
I love the smell of freshly cut grass. It takes me back to summers in Maine.
Where innocent bright-eyes daisies are With blades of grass between, Each daisy stands up like a star Out of a sky of green.
Heaven above was blue, and earth beneath was green; the river glistened like a path of diamonds in the sun; the birds poured forth their songs from the shady trees; the lark soared high above the waving corn; and the deep buzz of insects filled the air.
Laugh out, O stream, from your bed of green, / Where you lie in the sun's embrace; / And talk to the reeds that o'er you lean / To touch your dimpled face.
