There is talk. . . of our constructing Dnieprostroy through our own means. The means needed are great, several hundred millions. Let us not get into the position of the peasant who, after accumulating a nest-egg, instead of repairing his plough and renewing his equipment, buys a gramophone and goes bankrupt.
Who are we when we leave our families? Who do we become? What are we capable of? That's something that never leaves us. It begins at that point in your life when you leave the nest, and I don't think we stop wanting to explore that question.
I cherish my childish loves--the memory of that warm little nest where my affections were fledged.
We are also rather concerned about our moorhen who went mad while we were in Italy and began to build a nest in a tree. . . . she walks about in the tree, looking as uneasy yet persevering as a district visitor in a brothel.
God is the nest we build together.
The Universe will kick you out of your nest so you can fly.
If I talk to a woman for more than five minutes I can tell you exactly whether she's an Aidan girl or a Mr. Big girl. Aidan girls are more interested in nurturing relationships and building a nest while Mr. Big girls are more about show and having fun.
Because you see when a new baby laughs for the first time a new fairy is born, and as there are always new babies there are always new fairies. They live in nests on the tops of trees; and the mauve ones are boys and the white ones are girls, and the blue ones are just little sillies who are not sure what they are.
I'm excited for my little girls. When they left the nest, I was excited because they were winging their way into life.
Who owns Cross Creek? The red-birds, I think, more than I, for they will have their nests even in the face of delinquent mortgages. . It seems to me that the earth may be borrowed, but not bought. It may be used, but not owned. It gives itself in response to love and tending, offers its sesonal flowering and fruiting. But we are tenants and not possessors, lovers, and not masters. Cross Creek belongs to the wind and the rain, to the sun and the seasons, to the cosmic secrecy of seed, and beyond all, to time. . . "
With Your great schemes, You ruin our happiness like a harvester ruins a mouse's nest: I hate You, God, I hate You as though You existed.
Catelyn had never liked this godswood. She had been born a Tully, at Riverrun far to the south, on the Red Fork of the Trident. The godswood there was a garden, bright and airy, where tall redwoods spread dappled shadows across tinkling streams, birds sang from hidden nests, and the air was spicy with the scent of flowers.
I’ve dropped out of their hearts like a little sparrow fallen from its nest. So gather me up, dear, fold me to your heart – and you’ll see how nice I can be.
I wanted to build up a little nest egg and go back to L. A. and choose roles that I wanted to do instead of roles that I had to do to pay the bills.
Why art thou but a nest of gloom While the bobolinks are singing?
When you and I are inclined to nestle down in indolence and self indulgence. God "stirs up our nests" and bids us fly upward.
I saw a crow building a nest, I was watching him very carefully, I was kind of stalking him and he was aware of it. And you know what they do when they become aware of someone stalking them when they build a nest, which is a very vulnerable place to be? They build a decoy nest. It's just for you.
The issue of world environment has a special kind of urgency. . . The issue is one of rich peoples and poor peoples, of the growing gap between the two, and of the rich fouling their own nests.
How could an argument soothe or settle a controversy when every word is a nest for a bird of doubt? (meaning of words as inferences)
Anger is as a stone cast into a wasp's nest.