Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Mulch. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Mulch Quotes And Sayings by 92 Authors including Rae Carson,Thomas Jefferson,Henry David Thoreau,Bill Mckibben,Diane Duane for you to enjoy and share.
I scuff the toe of my boot through the dirt, uncovering pine needles and half-rotted leaves shed by the cottonwood looming over me. My dirt, I think. My land.
An acre of the best ground for hemp, is to be selected and sewn in hemp and be kept for a permanent hemp patch.
What have I to do with plows? I cut another furrow than you see.
Management of anything as complicated as a woods requires more humility than comes easily to our species, at least in its American incarnation.
The merriment of everything from foot-high weeds to hundred-foot oaks, rustling in the wind - grave chuckling of maples and alders, titters from groves of sapling sassafras, silly giggling in the raspberry bushes, a huge belly laugh from the oldest hollow ash tree before the freeway interchange.
Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves.
The grass was tall and parched, the limbs of the trees barren or else dotted with a few remaining leaves, the stragglers, bleached to the color of bone. They lifted in the breeze like waving hands, rustling like old paper.
It feels like an easy sum to gauge the balance between forests and, say, the proliferating free newspapers that litter our public transport. This noxious combination of words and paper represents a clear-cut crime against the biosphere.
We will burn the old grass and the new will grow.
Where the plow does not go and the seed is not sown, the weeds are sure to multiply.
Where would the gardener be if there were no more weeds?
Dense overgrown forests and rangelands have grown like a cancer. They need to be treated.
Next time you see an unblemished expanse of grass, think about the chemicals that probably got dumped in your vicinity to create it. Are you grateful for that?
The best fertilizer for a piece of land is the footprints of its owner.
O land and soil, red soil and sweet-gum tree,
So scant of grass, so profligate of pines
Society is like a lawn, where every roughness is smoothed, every bramble eradicated, and where the eye is delighted by the smiling verdure of a velvet surface
It is said of Muad'Dib that once when he saw a weed trying to grow between two rocks, he moved one of the rocks. Later, when the weed was seen to be flourishing, he covered it with the remaining rock. "That was its fate," he explained.
Grass grows at last above all graves.
Moss is inconceivably strong. Moss eats stone; scarcely anything, in return, eats moss. Moss dines upon boulders, slowly but devastatingly, in a meal that lasts for centuries. Given enough time, a colony of moss can turn a cliff into gravel, and turn that gravel into topsoil.
The tallest blade of grass is the surest to be cut.
Other people have shrubbery in their gardens. You have a bottomless pit.
marked more by the way the grass
Undisturbed, my garden fills with summer growth - how I wish for one who would push the deep grass aside.
Nothing is more pleasant to the eye than green grass kept finely shorn.
I'd rather have a yard filled with genuine garbage than with
trashy lawn ornaments.
If you don't sow your field what harvest other than thorns and weeds can you anticipate?
The soil under the grass is dreaming of a young forest, and under the pavement the soil is dreaming of grass.
Our lawns manifest our cultural desire: they are static, they are artificial, and they are kept sexually immature.
How dare you treat your soil like dirt!
Moss; A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush; A cripple in the right way, will beat a racer in the wrong; Make hay while the sun shines; 'T is hard to carry
Forests are the lungs of our land ...
Were trying to dig up the roots of that big oak stump near the
through woodlots and agricultural fields.
Leaves. Hundreds, thousands, maybe millions of them, brown and yellow and red and orange, in bright piles on the concrete floor. Some were so high they almost covered the rosebushes.
You may not have the greenest yard, but you can take the shit you're given and fertilize your grass into something beautiful!
Trees are what paper was, and wants to be.
Grass can be seen, although it is important not to
The leaves, they run like mice, while birds peck at the ground. The wood has rotted in its bin. The grim axe has come round
If the human mind naturally produces noisome weeds, it also produces flowers and fruit; and ... the best method to mend the soil in general, is for each of us to cultivate his own particular spot.
I would never build a lawn trimmer," Myrnin said. "What did the lawn ever do to me?
Eight years ago, I wouldn't have painted this subject I'm starting now: a clearing filled with grasses. It would have seemed too much of a jumble. I had to keep looking and drawing, and looking. Now, because of all that time I spent drawing these grasses, I know what I'm looking for.
I turn and run, watching my feet trample a massacre of weeds. I mourn them. The only thing that grows is dandelions in the cracks of the sidewalk and we always end up killing them.
The same soil is good for men and for trees. A man's health requires as many acres of meadow to his prospect as his farm does loads of muck.
steel tractor implements buried in more overgrown grass, the rotary blades shining bright from recent use by
Slowly the wasters and despoilers are impoverishing our land, our nature, and our beauty, so that there will not be one beach, one hill, one lane, one meadow, one forest free from the debris of man and the stigma of his improvidence.
Every farm woodland, in addition to yielding lumber, fuel and posts, should provide its owner a liberal education. This crop of wisdom never fails, but it is not always harvested.
Our village life would stagnate if it were not for the unexplored forests and meadows that surround it. We need the tonic of wildness ...
Oh! Old rubbish! Old letters, old clothes, old objects that one does not want to throw away. How well nature has understood that, every year, she must change her leaves, her flowers, her fruit and her vegetables, and make manure out of the mementos of her year!
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean
But I shall be good health to you nonetheless
And filter and fibre your blood.
Ask not the grass to give you green, and later walk all over it.
When the wind likes a path, the weeds around that path will tremble all day long!
Forests should not be walked on, they should be walked under and through.
Hay farms, scrub forest, and some bald-looking areas of
Dead fields under a November sky, scattered rose petals brown and turning up at the edges, empty pools scummed with algae, rot, decomposition, dust ...
A thicket of summer grass / Is all that remains / Of the dreams of ancient warriors.
The longer I live the greater is my respect for manure in all its forms.
Simple, like uncarved wood.
The Satisfactions of the Mad Farmer ... the quiet in the woods of a summer morning, the voice of a pewee passing through it like a tight silver wire; ...
Landscaping is the great cardinal sin of modern architecture. It's not your garden, it's not a park - it's a formless patch of grass, shrubbery and the occasional tree that exists purely to stop the original developer's plans from looking like a howling concrete wilderness.
Even dead fallen leaves go a long way with the wind before getting crushed.
In June the bush we call
alder was heavy, listless,
its leaves studded with galls,
growing wherever we didn't
want it.
The grower of trees, the gardener, the man born to farming, whose hands reach into the ground and sprout, to him the soil is a divine drug. He enters into death yearly, and comes back rejoicing. He has seen the light lie down in the dung heap, and rise again in the corn.
I waste the mountains and hills
Then plough deep, while sluggards sleep, and you shall have corn to sell and to keep.
LINEN, n. "A kind of cloth the making of which, when made of hemp, entails a great waste of hemp."
Put the hay down where the sheep can reach it.
Martyred plants from their shrouds. Their mouths
Like piles of dry wood with red-hot coals underneath.
Unless you remove the weeds, a good crop will be ruined.
If a tree falls in the forest and kills your ex-wife, what do you do with the lumber?
Stops at the end of the road collected Clyde Lidgards like dams collected silt.
A mist rises from a nearby mound. It could be me, that mist, or simply the caretaker's mower-dust. If the breeze blows just right, I'll ghost your solid, entwine your hair. Promise me you won't shampoo, but carry me along, tiny dust-particles of me.
The same wind that uproots trees makes the grass shine. The lordly wind loves the weakness and the lowness of grasses. Never brag of being strong. The axe doesn't worry how thick the branches are. It cuts them to pieces. But not the leaves. It leaves the leaves alone.
The trees that have it in their pent-up buds
To darken nature and be summer woods.
An ancient gnarled tree: Too fibrous for a logger's saw, Too twisted to fit a carpenter's square, Outlasts the whole forest.
On no other ground
Can I sow my seed
Without tearing up
Some stinking weed.
If you did not keep your yard in reasonable order, then your whole life would be similarly untidy. A messy yard told Mma Ramotswe everything she needed to know about its owner.
The dead leaves fly. They're cropped and gathered to the rich barn of the earth.
Concrete is heavy; iron is hard - but the grass will prevail.
Do not spread the compost on the weeds.
It seemed that it was changing subtly, cooking itself down under the pressure of time, silent invisible flakes settling to form a mulch, a crystalline essence of discarded technology, flowering secretly in the Sprawl's waste places.
The wasteland grows.
All things such as grass and trees are soft and supple in life. At their death they are withered and dry.
The crisp path through the field in this December snow, in the deep dark, where we trod the buried grass like ghosts on dry toast.
I used to lie down on the grass and draw the blades as they grew - until every square foot of meadow, or mossy bank, became a possession to me.
Please keep off the grass.
Sow into the gift and talent God has given to you to rip an harvest
Wood feeds the fire which burns it.
On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;The wind it plies the saplings double, And thick on Severn snow the leaves.
You know what they say in Arkansas ... manure happens.
Make hay while the sun is still shining,
Throw the lumber over, man!
People eat the shit you shovel them.
Dirt is just matter out of place.
It was still very wet under the trees. A careless tug at a branch might flip cold rainbow-edged drops down your back. And the sky was gray as concrete. But they enjoyed the silence, the soft sucking ground matted with last year's needles.
The landscape looks different from every blade of grass.
We can move water easily with plastic pipes. We can move shade around with nursery cloth like a tinker toy for animals and plants. Yet we have developed this necessity to grow food with chemical fertiliser because we have forgotten the magic of manure.
Her father had built from ax-hewn planks thatched with bamboo and grass. The floor was dirt, but it was clean. Her mother, Foua, sprinkled it regularly with
Burning the small dead branches broke from beneath thick spreading whitebark pine. A hundred summers snowmelt rock and air hiss in a twisted bough.
Everything you have contact with will be woven into your garden