Quotes About Waves

little sleek crisp flaxen wig, setting very close to his head: which wig, it is to be presumed, was made of hair, but which looked far more as though it were spun from filaments of silk or glass. His linen, though not of a fineness in accordance with his stockings, was as white as the tops of the waves that broke upon the neighbouring beach, or the specks of sail that glinted

Life is questions and answers, ebbing and flowing in endless waves

I think sometimes, could I only have music on my own terms; could I live in a great city and know where I could go whenever I wished the ablution and inundation of musical waves, — that were a bath and a medicine.

Popular radio is a publication alive with all the spirit and the thrills that ride the Hertzian waves and bring the broadcast news and joys of the world into the fireside circle of the home. Popular radio deserves to be popular!

When a woman's wave rises she feels she has an abundance of love to give, but when it falls she feels her inner emptiness and needs to be filled up with love.

Here, where sea Meets shore: The best of dancing floors.

Das Ufer ist sicherer, aber ich liebe den Kampf mit den Wellen. (Emily Dickinson)

Success comes in waves.

Posidonius O'Fluctuary!

Llegan, las olas. Los hipocampos crestiblancos, tascando, embridados en fúlgidos céfiros, los corceles de Mananaan.

A pier, sir, Armstrong said. A thing out in the waves. A kind of bridge. Kingstown pier, sir. Some laughed again : mirthless but with meaning. Two in the back bench whispered. Yes. They knew : had never learned nor ever been innocent. All. With envy he watched their faces. Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily. Their likes : their breaths, too, sweetened with tea and jam, their bracelets tittering in the struggle. — Kingstown pier, Stephen said. Yes, a disappointed bridge.

White breast of the dim sea. The twining stresses, two by two. A hand plucking the harpstrings, merging their twining chords. Wavewhite wedded words shimmering on the dim tide.

Waves kept pounding against the door. The water definitely wanted me to let it in.

A FLAT, still sandy, still meadowy region… a superb range of ocean beach—miles and miles of it. The bright sun, the sparkling waves, the foam, the view—a sail here and there in the distance. Walt Whitman had written that

He was the anchor in the water, while you rocked up and down on the waves.

waves of it going through my head. It was

It isn't the words we speak that make us who we are. Or even the deeds we do. It is the secrets buried in our hearts." She looks sharply at Bhima. "People think that the ocean is made up of waves and things that float on top. But they forget—the ocean is also what lies at the bottom, all the broken things stuck in the sand. That, too, is the ocean.

Spread, widen, flatten, fade. Like all waves. Like all shocks. A note in the history books. A few biographies. Revisionist biographies a generation later. Encyclopedia entries. Notes at the end of translations of his books. That is the stillness into which all great lives fade.

We stood side by side and looked out at the vastness, the possibility of everything out there. Within the universe, I felt like a speck, but within myself I felt gigantic, the salt air filling my lungs, the roaring of the waves rushing in my ears.

Little bright-topped waves rocked the boat gently on the way to pattering up against the seawalls. A salty wind blew from the land out over the water. The town of Crisfield lay in the sunlight before them, bleached white as the oyster shells scattered around the ground.

Out here, there was salt on the wind itself that fell on your skin like rain. You could taste it. Out here the sun heated and the wind cooled, and the waves sang their constant song.

And it seemed she was like the sea, nothing but dark waves rising and heaving, heaving with a great swell, so that slowly her whole darkness was in motion, and she was Ocean rolling its dark, dumb mass.

I will sleep no more but arise, You oceans that have been calm within me! how I feel you, fathomless, stirring, preparing unprecedented waves and storms.

But I am not the sea nor the red sun, I am not the wind with girlish laughter, Not the immense wind which strengthens, not the wind which lashes, Not the spirit that ever lashes its own body to terror and death, But I am that which unseen comes and sings, sings, sings, Which babbles in brooks and scoots in showers on the land, Which the birds know in the woods mornings and evenings, And the shore-sands know and the hissing wave, and that banner and pennant, Aloft there flapping and flapping.