Colors Of Nature Quotes

“Life is a manifestation of the unified field of consciousness. Colors, beauty, pleasure and pain are its songs of creation.”
― Amit Ray, Beautify your Breath - Beautify your Life

“Alice came upon treasure after treasure: everlasting daisies in pastel pinks and yellows, trails of grey and white feathers, boughs heavy with blossom buds on the gum trees. She breathed in the warm earth and appreciated the sky, a blend of soldier-crab blue and every shade of purple in a pipi shell. The desert's an old dream of the sea.”
― Holly Ringland, The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart

“Pretty flowers grew on the banks in colors her books did not adequately re-create: pink, golden eggy yellow, bright white with the shadow of its own curled petal twinning next to it.”
― Liz Braswell, What Once Was Mine

“My feet stopped their churning only once they realized the dirt beneath them had turned to laid-over grasses. I found myself in a lonely, overgrown field beneath a sky so blue it reminded me of the tiles my father brought back from Persia: a majestic, world-swallowing blue you could fall into. Tall, rust-colored grasses rolled beneath it, and a few scattered cedars spiraled up toward it.
Something in the shape of the scene- the rich smell of dry cedar in the sun, the grass swaying against the sky like a tigress in orange and blue- made me want to curl into the dry stems like a fawn waiting for her mother. I waded deeper, wandering, letting my hands trail through the frilled tops of wild grains.”
― Alix E. Harrow, The Ten Thousand Doors of January

“My mother rebelled, cautiously and craftily, as thwarted women will. She gave me lessons in the stolen time while Father was away at business. I remember her standing before me in a bluebell-striped dress, her tired face suddenly shining as she opened A Ladies Instructor For Painting Diverse Delights, so we might copy its hand-colored plates. "Grace, you have a fine eye," Mother said. I wanted to dissect the heart of my subjects, to catch the shadow of the wilting rose in cadmium red, and conjure the snow tumbling like thistledown outside the window in washes of cerulean blue. One day, when painting the gleaming sphere of an apple, a black wriggling creature punctured the skin from the inside. Mother was bemused that I carried on painting, recording the creature's ugly pointed head and shiny segments. "That is the truth," I insisted, proud of my picture.”
― Martine Bailey, A Taste for Nightshade

“She's worked alongside him as they built their house on the vacant lot behind the sweet house and cultivated a small but fertile patch of cassava and sweet potatoes. Along the side wall of the house, a paradise of colors: tender pink hibiscus, fiery flamingo flowers, delicate purple orchids, and plump, juicy red protea.”
― Anne Østby, Pieces of Happiness

“She led me into the salon, where buckets of mostly white flowers bloomed in every corner of the room like fluffy clouds, making it a magical olfactory experience for my nose and my spirit, the sweet aromas potent. There were roses, tulips, and peonies, as well as a few containers bursting with blood-orange flowers with saffron-colored filaments, similar in form to an amaryllis.
"I mostly ordered white flowers," said Jane, pointing to an arrangement. "The clivias offer a dash of color- my concept for the exciting change to come.”
― Samantha Verant, The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux

“Sticky everlasting

Meaning:My love will not leave you
Xerochrysum viscosum | New South Wales and Victoria

These paper-like flowers display hues of lemon, gold, and splotchy orange to fiery bronze.
They can be easily cut, dried, and preserved while retaining their stunning colors.”
― Holly Ringland, The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart

“Around them, the willowy needles of desert oak trees swayed in the pale orange light. Wafts of yellow butterflies fluttered low over acacia and mulga bushes. The crater wall slowly changed color as the sun sank, from flat ochre to blazing red to chocolate-purple. The sun slipped under the dark line of the horizon, glowing like an ember as it threw its last light up into the sky.”
― Holly Ringland, The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart

“Wrapped in his arms, Alice watched as all the colors of the sky seemed to stream down the walls of gorge and pool on the glassy surface of the creek, reflecting swirls of light back upwards again. She shook her head: the gorge and the creek were perfect bowl-like mirror reflections of each other, drenched in the fiery colors of the setting sun. The sight reminded her of her books of fairytales: the enchanted empty chalice that miraculously filled; the wishing well that held heaven in its depths.”
― Holly Ringland, The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart

“Like true country people, they loved watching the countryside change with the seasons. They savored the trees turning green in the spring. They saw the summer flowers blossom, fade, and drop. They exclaimed over the autumn colors, gold and red and rust. They watched the leaves fall, and the fields turn sere, to be purified by winter. The wheel of the year turned once, twice, three times.”
― Louisa Morgan, A Secret History of Witches

“White, green, and blue, the colors of winter that have predominated for at least four months, cede the stage to brown. Much has been written about the therapeutic properties of green and blue, but plugs for brown are scant. The snow's disappearance amounts to the emotional equivalent of a plastic surgery gone bad. When the gauze is unwrapped, the patient sees the result and is horror stricken.”
― Randy Spencer, Where Cool Waters Flow: Four Seasons with a Master Maine Guide

“February gave way to March, with its bursting colors of a too-early spring. Such warm weather was a welcome contrast to the near freezes of the previous year, as if this newborn century was impatient to exhibit its glory and all the unforeseen changes it would bring. Alice’s heart expanded at the sight of white snowdrops in lieu of absent snow; the vivid purples of wild petunias, pincushion flowers, and irises laced with the varying hues of tulips; and the glorious flowering shrubs---azaleas and camellias---lighting up the shade, covered entirely in blossoms as if they nurtured blooms but no leaves. She had seen the prairie carpeted in wildflowers, but this display was unlike that wild one of nature, somehow singularly intimate and welcoming, whereas the prairie engulfed and dwarfed her. There is not one thing that humankind has done on earth that is equal to one square inch of this, she thought.”
― Diane C. McPhail, The Seamstress of New Orleans

“The flickering flames serve a fair match for the sun as the golden globe dips low behind Dove Mountain.
In response the earth sings out in passionate notes, morphing from a timid silence into an aria of melon, tangerine, and pomegranate. Foraging bats add their faint, rhythmic clicks, and my heart hums in response.”
― Julie Cantrell, Perennials

“They have the place to themselves and for a while they simply sit and look out at the view, her body relaxing into his. The cloudless sky is a spectacular wash of graduated colors- navy highest above them, fading to lighter cyan closer to the earth, under-lit by the rosy blush of the sun hovering upon the horizon. There is a peace to the place, a certain stillness, nothing but the setting sun and the occasional silhouette of a soaring bird to distract from the awe-inspiring view.”
― Hannah Richell, The Peacock Summer

“Gliding through the garden was a peacock. It might have even been thee same one I'd seen before, with a tall crown and gorgeous deep-blue chest. Arrogantly, he turned his face away from us, as if we were below his notice, and called out to the forest. From the trees came an answer, and he strutted off, king of his domain. "They are so beautiful." Pavi sighed.
"Samir told me there is a flock that lives in the forest."
"Roses and peacocks. It's like the setting for a fairy tale."
I looked around. "It's going to take more than a kiss to save this place." I thought of the single rose blooming into the parlor when Samir and I had first walked through. "But it does feel sometimes like it's under an enchantment."
One tall rose drew my eye, a castle atop a small hill, with tangles of white damask roses around it, as if on guard. The rose was orange and yellow with touches of pink, and I recognized it immediately from a hundred of my mother's paintings. It seemed larger than others of the same type, as haughty as the peacock, and I rounded the overgrown white roses to see if I could find a way in.
Pavi, however, was enchanted by the damasks. "These are prime," she cried, burying her nose in a mass of them. "The perfect flower for rosewater. It will be clear and very, very fragrant.”
― Barbara O'Neal, The Art of Inheriting Secrets

“My eyes widened at this jungle of freshness, the earth on the ground. The back wall, around thirty feet high, burst with terra-cotta pots filled with every herb imaginable- basil, thyme, coriander, parsley, oregano, dill, rosemary, and lavender. There were tomatoes of almost every variety beaming with colors of red, dark purple, yellow, and green. Lemon trees. Avocados. Lettuces, like roquette and feuille de chêne. Zucchinis and eggplants. Fennel, celeriac, artichokes, and cucumbers. Leeks, asparagus, cabbages, and shallots, oh my.
I exhaled a happy breath. This explosion of color, this climate-controlled greenhouse, was every chef's idea of heaven. I ran my hands over the leaves of a cœur de bœuf tomato plant and brought my fingers to my nose, breathing in the grassy and fragrant aroma, an unmistakable scent no other plant shared. All of the smells from my summers in France surrounded me under one roof. As the recipes Grand-mère taught me when I was a child ran through my head, my heart pumped with happiness, a new vitality. I picked a Black Krim, which was actually colored a reddish purple with greenish brown shoulders, and bit into it. Sweet with just a hint of tartness. Exactly how I summed up my feelings.”
― Samantha Verant, The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux

“I want to make a heart in red flowers with blue flowers around it."
"Okeydokey. So, let's look for red flowers and blue flowers."
We flipped, she picked blue violas ("painted porcelain" they were called, a pale blue with darker blue edges, very pretty,) and something called a "chocolate cosmos," which was more burgundy than red, but still, it's her garden.
"Are they actually chocolate?" asked Clare, who had come back for a snack for herself and a rawhide chewy for Frank.
"No, but it says here that they smell of chocolate."
"Hmm." She'd fallen for that one before.”
― Abbi Waxman, The Garden of Small Beginnings

“The orchard where they stood was on higher ground than the farmhouse, which nestled like a white dove beneath hemlocks and the tall protecting elms. The fields, checkered by stone walls, undulated gently toward the sapphire strip of the distant Sound. A late October haze, faintly lavender, filtered the clear air, and intensified the perfume of burning leaves. Maples on the Cat Rock Hills blazed red and gold, colors repeated even more strongly by a riot of sumach and goldenrod against the gray wall of the little burying ground. Buttercup's bell tinkled rhythmically, as Seth guided her toward the barn and the evening milking.”
― Anya Seton, Dragonwyck

“Whenever she could take the time from the English department, Celia would garden. At first she would resist, but then once she was down and dirty, perhaps because of the oxygen coming from the plants themselves, perhaps because she was dealing with the fecundity of the underworld and all its roots and thus the etymology of bloom, perhaps because it made her look forward with such radiant hope- she didn't know what it was, but once she started digging and planting she could not get herself to go back to the house until the light was gone. Most of the time she saw her garden as shaggy with wanting, weeds overgrown with their own delight. Occasionally, though, small corners of terrain or even single plants seemed to approach some ethereal ideal, as when one day a friend had left on her front porch an immense dahlia of impossible color, a sort of smoky rose gold, aureate.”
― Grace Dane Mazur, The Garden Party: A Novel

“They had left the buckets of stemmed flowers and now found themselves in the center of the indoor succulent section, an array of miniature plants with whimsical names such as burro's tail and flaming katy. Olive slowed her pace, taking her time perusing metal racks of each variety. She stooped down and plucked a container of a sweet, blossom-shaped plant.
"What's that one?" Julia asked. She liked the look of its pink-edged tips, whose color reminded her of a radish.
"This guy here is called roseum. It likes the sun, so I'd have to think of a spot near a window. But it's a nice touch of color among all the green. At different times of year, it develops clusters of light-pink star-shaped flowers. I like it because it adds texture next to something like, say, that jade plant, which is more like a stocky little tree. If I place them together, it adds interest."
"Wow. That sounds great."
Olive brightened. "Thanks. And then, see these here?" She pointed to a miniature plant with chubby, rosette-style leaves.
"Yes?" Julia leaned closer and squinted to read the sign. "The one that says 'Sedum Golden Glow'?"
"Yes. That one. I'm thinking of getting a few of those guys and placing them on the dining table in these cool little glass-and-gold terrariums I found online. They have delicate little panes of glass set against metal frames that catch your eye, and they're fancy enough for Mom's taste. She's okay if I do rustic, but she always wants a touch of something expensive mixed in. The terrariums do the trick, I think.”
― Nicole Meier, The Second Chance Supper Club

“And face-to-face with the lush vineyard, I feel my worries melt away. The grapes glow with that magical golden sunlight, but from here, it feels far more real. I turn and turn, drinking in the sights of the green vines, thick with plump grapes, the same sage green as the broad leaves fluttering in the breeze. Dusty paths stretch between the rows, and I want to walk through them forever, listening to the almost-quiet of this strange, beautiful world.”
― Julie Abe, The Charmed List

“She returned to where I stood, and handed over a flower. I inspected the borage, holding it up like a culinary scientist, noting the blue petals, offset by white stamens, and a raised white ball-like structure in the center, decorated with a purplish-blue pattern with hints of red that resembled a planet or a galactic moon. My heart skipped a beat. Aside from Marie's desserts, I'd never seen anything so beautiful.
"This flower is mystical and magical," I said. "Did fairies or aliens create them?"
"I'd go with fairies. The thought of aliens flips me out. Eat it," she said, and I did.
The flavors of this edible flower rolled on my tongue in waves. A crunch. A bitterness. And sweetness. I closed my eyes, reveling in the magic, the flavor, thinking about what we could do with this. I met her gaze.
"Oh my god. You're so right. They taste like cucumbers," I said, licking my lips.”
― Samantha Verant, Sophie Valroux's Paris Stars

“It was seven o'clock but still light, a drowsy early evening on a warm summer's day, the sky starting to soften into the pink, purple, and gold folds of dusk, and the lower reaches of the garden just beginning to darken and cool. The colors and smells, the quality of the light, were visceral. Jess could feel them in the rhythm of her heartbeat, deep in her lungs, in the cells of her skin. She knew them as one can't help but know the cadence of their mother tongue.”
― Kate Morton, Homecoming

“Watching the trees bloom in a riot of pink clouds in spring, the red-gold sunrise in the skin of an apple, the shadows mingling on the moss, the moments of novelty and beauty hidden in the repetition— this was the orchard that captured Delphine. She tried to catch its movement in sketches and coax its colors into painted landscapes. And she knew, intuited it from the quietest, deepest part of herself, that there was more of that novelty and beauty waiting to be discovered. Waiting for her.”
― Rowenna Miller, The Fairy Bargains of Prospect Hill

“In India, white color is given importance, so they try to make the trees white”
― Trees in India

“She looked out of the kitchen window at gray skies, at clouds heavy with rain slanting down on the horizon now (she imagined making the mark with a wet brush in watercolor), and the winter colors of the fields. She would paint this day in umber, sap green and Payne's gray.”
― Caroline Scott, Good Taste

“It had been a dove-colored morning when Stella had left home, a soft gray sky touched with pink at the horizon. It had brightened after the rain, though, and everything was edged with gold this afternoon, like the pages of a precious book. Mist clung on in hollows, and water was running at the side of the road, but the hedgerows glittered now, wood pigeons lifting from wheat fields, and the hills were burnished bronze. Stella breathed in a scent of fallen leaves and wood fires, and vaguely wished for a less complicated life in which she might simply sit and evaluate the light with a box of watercolors on her lap.”
― Caroline Scott, Good Taste

“She murmured their names under her breath as much to reassure herself as anything else... brilliant orange strelitzia--- birds of paradise--- purple aster, a deep magenta bougainvillea, hellebores, camellia, pelargonium and delicate viola in the shade there... the familiar words a salve to her sorrow.”
― Kayte Nunn, The Botanist's Daughter

“It was then that a divine scent reached her nostrils. It was the most alluring fragrance she had ever smelled: sweet but not cloying, with a fresh undertone and a lingering spiciness. Like vanilla and jasmine and sweetbriar and sandalwood, but somehow more than all of those. She inhaled deeply, looking for the source of the intoxicating aroma. Two steps further on and then there it was, partly hidden behind an acacia bush. The most beautiful white flowers, petals striped with purple, bloomed along thick green stems. Drawing closer, she saw that the deep purple-black stamens were topped with orange pollen so vibrant it appeared to almost glow in the fading light.”
― Kayte Nunn, The Botanist's Daughter