There hath grown no grass on my heels since I went hence.
Happy is the man who loves the woods and waters, Brother to the grass and well beloved of Pan; The earth shall be his, and all her laughing daughters. Happy the man.
I was twenty-one at the time, about to turn twenty-two. No prospect of graduating soon, and yet no reason to quit school. Caught in the most curiously depressing circumstances. For months I'd been stuck, unable to take one step in any new direction. The world kept moving on; I alone was at a standstill. In the autumn, everything took on a desolate cast, the colors swiftly fading before my eyes. The sunlight, the smell of the grass, the faintest patter of rain, everything got on my nerves.
Though no one had been buried here for almost thirty years, the grass was mown by yours truly. I felt a tidy graveyard made a happy graveyard.
The Santa Anas blew in hot from the desert, shriveling the last of the spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. Only the oleanders thrived, their delicate poisonous blooms, their dagger green leaves. We could not sleep in the hot dry nights, my mother and I.
I dunno. I never smoked any Astroturf. (When asked whether he preferred grass or Astroturf
Jews have always thought that having someone elevated with his head above the grass was not good for the Jews. I never felt that way. I believe that you have to stand up.
We pick up the lost bits and pieces, from the grass where we left them, and bring them with us into a future that will be made up of so much more as well.
I used my imagination to make the grass whatever color I wanted it to be.
In the world's audience hall, the simple blade of grass sits on the same carpet with the sunbeams, and the stars of midnight.
Blue grass was the outgrowth of Irish music. As a matter of fact a lot the tunes, a lot of the melodies and the jigs. . . have different names but are actually the same tunes.
The grass is not always greener on the other side of the fence. The grass is greenest where it is watered.
The grass is always greener once you don't have to mow a lawn anymore.
Gratitude is confidence in life itself. In it, we feel how the same force that pushes grass through cracks in the sidewalk invigorates our own life.
It takes a person of great care and insight to watch for any abnormality in the green grass even while it grows abundantly and healthily.
We are a nation of sheep, and someone else owns the grass.
I'm thankful to be breathing, on this side of the grass. Whatever comes, comes.
If we could, and we must, establish a deep long abiding relationship with nature, with the actual trees, the bushes, the flowers, the grass and the fast moving clouds, then we would never slaughter another human being for any reason whatsoever.
We will burn the old grass and the new will grow.
We live, we die, and like the grass and trees, renew ourselves from the soft earth of the grave. Stones crumble and decay, faiths grow old and they are forgotten, but new beliefs are born. The faith of the villages is dust now. . . but it will grow again. . . like the trees.
