Quotes About Sea

I felt," he said, "irritated. It seemed a waste, I suppose. To come so far. To cross the sea. To die for . . ." He shrugs. "God knows why.

England was always, the cardinal says, a miserable country, home to an outcast and abandoned people, who are working slowly toward their deliverance, and who are visited by God with special tribulations. If England lies under God's curse, or some evil spell, it has seemed for a time that the spell has been broken, by the golden king and his golden cardinal. But those golden years are over, and this winter the sea will freeze; the people who see it will remember it all their lives.

In Antwerp they slide the printed sheets of the gospels between the folds of bales of cloth, where they hide, white against white. Warm, nestled, God whispers within each bundle; His word sails the sea, is unloaded in eastern ports, travels to London in a cart.

Oread" Whirl up, sea— whirl your pointed pines, splash your great pines on our rocks, hurl your green over us, cover us with your pools of fir.

O Muse, sing to me of that sea-monster, Eurymedon's son, whose stomach, like a knife, fattens on all it finds. Tell of his dreadful end, and how by public order the town will stone him to death beside the sterile sea.

But kissing Locke never felt the way that kissing Cardan does, like taking a dare to run over knives, like an adrenaline strike of lightning, like the moment when you've swum too far out in the sea and there is no going back, only cold black water closing over your head.

Nicasia said that as mortal power grows, land and sea ought to be united. And that they would be, either in the way she hoped or the way I should fear." "Ominous," I say. "It seems I have a singular taste for women who threaten me.

Waves tossed themselves against the shore, dragging grit and sand between their nails as they were slowly pulled back out to sea.

The smile that curves his lip is voluptuous. "Beneath ever bit of your sea is land. Seething, volcanic land. Go against me, and I will show you what this boy will do, my lady.

Idly, I wonder what sort of execution Cardan might order. Maybe he'd strap me to some rocks and let the sea do the work. Nicasia would like that. If he's not in the mood, though, there's always beheading, hanging, exsanguination, drawn and quartered, fed whole to a riding toad...

I can see the sea that encircles the island and beyond it, the bright lights of human cities and towns through the ever-present mist. I have never looked directly from our world in to theirs. Locke puts his hand against my back, between my shoulder blades. 'At night, the human world looks as though it's full of fallen stars.

in the mortal world, there are such things as backyards. Here, there are forest and sea, rocks and mazes, flowers that are red only when they get fresh blood.

Opening the window, I sit at Taryn's desk and sip nettle tea, drinking in the sharp salt scent of the sea and the wild honeysuckle and the distant breeze through the trees. I take a deep breath, at home and homesick all at the same time.

His raven's-wing hair falls over one eye. 'So, are we at war?' For a moment, I think he is talking about us. 'No,' I say. 'At least not until the next full moon.' 'You can't fight the sea,' Locke says philosophically. Cardan gives a little laugh. 'You can fight anything. Winning, though, that's something else again.

I don't have a lot of experience with kisses. There was Locke, and before him, no one. But kissing Locke never felt the way that kissing Cardan does, like taking a dare to run over knives, like an adrenaline strike of lightning, like the moment when you've swum too far out in the sea and there is no going back, only cold black water closing over your head.

We ride over the cliffs and then the sea, watching mermaids leap in the spangled waves and selkies rolling along the surf. Past the fog perpetually surrounding the islands and concealing them from mortals.

Gray-eyed Athena sent them a favorable breeze, a fresh west wind, singing over the wine-dark sea.

Dryads gathered in knots, hushed, and for once satyrs did not chase them but stood solitary sentinel, horned heads upflung and broad nostrils quivering. Kelpies and selkies hesitated, between horseform and biped shape, their wicked teeth gleaming as they snorted and stamped; among them, night-mares or elfhorses along the shores of the Dreaming Sea—which touches all shores, always—tossed their manes but did not neigh.

I has a last look at the sea, which was rumpled and agitated, a thick muscle that would hold on tight to everything it swallowed.

St. Brigid's Island perched like a jagged accident above the water, all grass and rock, no beach to ease the passage of a boat, no harbor to shelter it once there. Twelve miles west of Ireland, at times nearly impossible to get to and just as deadly to try to leave. It was the whim of the wind and the swelling sea that determined who landed there and who was let go.

Being responsive is like being emotionally anchored in the calm depth of the sea, where the waters are clear and still no matter what's happening on the surface.

the sheep and the sea and the sweet meadow air.

I love to lounge, and I particularly love to eat outdoors. It's a throwback to my childhood in Hawaii. I have memories of coming out of the sea and eating corn chips with a strawberry vanilla slush.

The sea always offers up incredible stories of survivors' fortitude. Myths of a lot of countries have variations on that.