Happy the man who from the sea escapes the storm and finds harbor.
Could one live on the sense of beauty alone, exempt from the necessity of 'creature comforts,' a sea-voyage would be delightful.
After a day and a half or so the traveler will realize that crossing the continent by Interstate he gets to know the country about as well as a cable messenger knows the sea bottom.
Hark, now hear the sailors cry, smell the sea, and feel the sky let your soul & spirit fly, into the mystic.
For the good are always the merry, Save by an evil chance, And the merry love the fiddle, And the merry love to dance: And when the folk there spy me, They will all come up to me, With,”Here is the fiddler of Dooney!” And dance like a wave of the sea.
It's called a sea anchor,' [Evanlyn] explained. 'It'll stop us drifting too far. ' Alyss was impressed. 'And you said you were pig-ignorant when it came to boats. ' 'I don't remember saying that,' Evanlyn replied with a frown. Alyss shrugged. 'Oh? Well, it must have been me.
The sea drinks the air and the sun the sea.
As o'er the stormy sea of human Life We sail, until our anchor'd spirits rest In the far haven of Eternity.
To think that before the hills were formed, or the channels of the sea were scooped out, God loved me; that from everlasting to everlasting His mercy is upon His people. Is not that a consolation?
The things fishermen know about trout aren't facts but articles of faith.
The materials of wealth are in the earth, in the seas, and in their natural and unaided productions.
I know when dark-haired evening put on her bright silk at sunset, and, folding the sea sidled under the sheet with her starry laugh, that there'd be no rest, there'd be no forgetting. Is like telling mourners round the graveside about resurrection, they want the dead back.
So Matilda’s strong young mind continued to grow, nurtured by the voices of all those authors who had sent their books out into the world like ships on the sea. These books gave Matilda a hopeful and comforting message: You are not alone.
Many live in the ivory tower called reality; they never venture on the open sea of thought.
Or whipping its rough surface for a trout.
At the happy ending of the Tempest, Prospero brings the kind back togeter with his son, and finds Miranda's true love and punishes the bad duke and frees Ariel and becomes a duke himself again. Everyone - except Caliban - is happy, and everyone is forgiven, and everyone is fine, and they all sail away on calm seas. Happy endings. That's how it is in Shakespeare. But Shakespeare was wrong. Sometimes there isn't a Prospero to make everything fine again. And sometimes the quality of mercy is strained.
From the tower battlements, Dustfinger looked down on a lake as black as night, where the reflection of the castle swam in a sea of stars. The wind passing over his unscarred face was cold from the snow of the surrounding mountains, and Dustfinger relished life as if he were tasting it for the first time. The longing it brought, and the desire. All the bitterness, all the sweetness, even if it was only for a while, never for more than a while, everything gained and lost, lost and found again.
All artists dream of a silence which they must enter, as some creatures return to the sea to spawn.
From the port of ideas, not only the most clever ones put out to sea and conquer the world but also the most stupid ones do!
I'd like to be in a tiny indie where I'm lost at sea.