Nature Metaphors, Analogies and Similes
Be cool and quick to go as a drop of April snow.
The first daffodils of spring are like the birds that foretell ocean sailors of land long before it arrives.
The caterpillar does the graft but the butterfly gets all the publicity.
Manchester's colourless sun was barely visible through grey clouds, like a clean plate on a dirty tablecloth.
The spectacular flourish at the end of Empire is like the glorious colours of autumn leaves about to fall.
The clouds huddled in the late afternoon like cows coming in for a drink.
The hills and valleys foreshorten into crumpled papers.
Autumn is a second spring, when every leaf is a flower.
The way to ensure summer in England is to have it framed and glazed in a comfortable room.
In the Highlands, the wind played my ears like a flute.
The storm rain hoofed across the grass like galloping horses.
For the true nature of things, if we rightly consider, every green tree is far more glorious than if it were made of gold or silver.
Bleached clouds sailed across the sky like the ghosts of icebergs.
All gardening is landscape painting.
Flowers in a city are like lipstick on a woman — looking better with a little colour.
With every word he uttered, the mercury of my mood sank and pillow-fighting clouds rolled in.
The rain never stopped like a full orchestra moaning out the same note for three hours.
As cold and bottomless as an oceanic trench.
On the waste ground were syringes, like the needles of a pine forest after a tornado.
In the Lake District, the shaven hills were bowed like penitents.
The lightning photographed the golfer twice. But he was not moving the second time.
The sun dropped in blood-streaked splendour like a public execution.
As fresh and fair as a rose in May.
The street cars pulsed below, like the seashore, with the sound of a rhythmic build-up of surf.
Clouds are the sheet music of the heavens. Frost covered the pavement like a failed skin graft.
As anonymous as a snowflake on a snowball hiding behind a snowman in a snowstorm.
The flowers anew, returning seasons bring, but beauty faded has no second spring.
The night opened up like a whale's jaw, a deep blue chasm.
The moon slowly emerged from enveloping clouds, and developed like a wet-film photograph.
To a person uninstructed in natural history, their country or seaside stroll is like a walk through a portrait gallery filled with wonderful works of art, nine tenths of which have their faces turned to the wall.
Stars and Space
As I turned, the sun stung my eye with a boxer's left hook.
Eventually, the fiery comet of her talent was pulled down by the heavy gravity of his drug habit.
I see that side of the family at far-away intervals, like Halley's comet.
As endless as a scheme for joining the stars.
The early evening stars appeared like the run of the right-hand playing a piece by Liszt.
The stars are majestic laboratories, gigantic crucibles, such as no chemist could ever dream.
Everyone is like a moon, with a dark side they never show to anybody.
With your happiness take no credit, as the night sky takes no credit for the moon, but continues to hold it and share it.
One may understand the cosmos, but never the ego; the self is more distant than any star.
The light of stars that was extinguished ages ago still reach us. So it is with great people who died centuries ago, but who still reach us with the radiance of their personalities.
We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.
Philosophy is written in that great book which ever lies before our eyes — I mean the universe.
The moon was stamped in the sky like a vaccination mark on one's arm.
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