Quotes About Sea

The sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might: He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright-- And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night.

When we were little, the Mock Turtle went on at last, more calmly, though still sobbing a little now and then, we went to school in the sea. The master was an old Turtle - we used to call him Tortoise - Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn't one? Alice asked. We called him Tortoise because he taught us, said the Mock Turtle angrily: really you are very dull!

The world is but a Thought, said he: The vast unfathomable sea Is but a Notion—unto me.

The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because No cloud was in the sky: No birds were flying overhead - There were no birds to fly.

The time has come, the Walrus said, To talk of many things: Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax— Of cabbages—and kings— And why the sea is boiling hot— And whether pigs have wings.

I know the English are terribly sentimental about the sea, but I can live without it.

I longed to be a flowering branch, the sea in its rocking, an unguessed world. Even now it seems so much as if the body was only the desire of the planet, as if it could turn itself into the universe both together, the same

The Lord Jesus is a deep sea of joy; my soul shall dive therein, shall be swallowed up in the delights of his society.

The desert is a spiritual place, we vaguely understand, and the sea the mere playground of our hedonism.

When the seagulls follow the trawler, it is because they think sardines will be thrown into the sea.

Never before have I lived through a storm like the one this night. … The sea has a look of indescribable grandeur, especially when the sun falls on it. One feels as if one is dissolved and merged into Nature. Even more than usual, one feels the insignificance of the individual, and it makes one happy.

Like the sea, the Web is volatile: 70 percent of its communications last less than four months. Its virtue (its virtuality) entails a constant present-which for medieval scholars was one of the definitions of hell.23

The last light, in the last window, went out. Only the unstoppable machine of the sea still tears away at the silence with the cyclical explosion of nocturnal waves, distant memories of sleepwalking storms and the shipwrecks of dream.

Say the sea. Say the sea. Say the sea. So that perhaps a drop of that magic may wander through time, and something might find it, and save it before it disappears forever. Say the sea. Because it's what we have left. Because faced by the sea, we without crosses, without magic, we must still have a weapon, something, so as not to die in silence, that's all.

ci sono tre tipi di uomini: quelli che vivono davanti al mare, quelli che si spingono dentro il mare, e quelli che dal mare riescono a tornare vivi. […] vedrai la sorpresa quando scoprirai quali sono i più felici.

Look where the water arrives... it goes up the beach, then it stops... it is precisely that point where it stops [...] something extraordinary happens there, [...], the sea ends there.

Already many of the memories of the previous two weeks had faded: the smell of that small hotel in St. Andrews; that mixture of bacon cooking for breakfast and the lavender-scented soap in the bathroom; the air from the sea drifing across the golf course; the aroma of coffee in the coffee bar in South Street. She should have noted them down. She should have said something about all that and the light and the hills with sheep on them like small white stones.

Already many of the memories of the previous two weeks had faded: the smell of that small hotel in St. Andrews; that mixture of bacon cooking for breakfast and the lavender-scented soap in the bathroom; the air from the sea drifting across the golf course; the aroma of coffee in the coffee bar in South Street. She should have noted them down. She should have said something about all that and the light and the hills with sheep on them like small white stones.

It was one of those rare and beautiful days in winter when England remembers that there is a sun. The star of the day, pale but nevertheless still splendid, was setting in the horizon, glorifying at one the heavens and the sea with bands of fire, and casting upon the tower and the old houses of the city a last ray of gold which made the windows sparkle like the reflection of a conflagration.

But excessive grief is like a storm at sea, where the frail bark is tossed from the depths to the top of the wave.

This sometimes happened: from time to time, Dantès, driven out of solitude into the world, felt an imperative need for solitude. And what solitude is more vast and more poetic than that of a ship sailing alone on the sea, in the darkness of night and the silence of infinity, under the eye of the Lord?

At the top of the Incline he looked back down at the houses and the sand and the sea. But they were all helpless now, lost in the fog.

Again in the dark, sea-scented night, he was filled with power and excitement and rhythm.

What was I waiting for with regards to the sea-soaked woman laughing in front of me? What would I tell myself if I didn't watch her grow gorgeously ripe with our baby? If we didn't become sleep-deprived and snappy with each other as we tried to navigate the stormy seas of parenthood together.