Quotes About Meadow

When I leave Sainte-Geneviève-des-Bois that I too experience as a prison house, a feeling of freedom washes over me. Between the road and the hospital, a peaceful space, a meadow slopes toward an absence of walls. When I point this out to him: —No more need for walls, no more need for barbed wire as in the concentration camps. The incarceration is chemical. The prisoner is chemical: he cannot take two steps on his own. But he can look at the outside. He can talk, right...

It all boils down to money and power and to hell with the meadow that's flattened while the elephants and donkeys dance for dollars.

When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces,The mother of months in meadow or plainFills the shadows and windy placesWith lisp of leaves and ripple of rain;And the brown bright nightingale amorousIs half assuaged for Itylus,For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces,The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.

of different wild flowers and ferns grow.

A saturated meadow, Sun-shaped and jewel-small

In a high meadow, wild bighorn sheep. Their lambs gambol. When you see that gamboling with your own eyes, you'll know something you didn't know before. What will you know? Hard to say, but something like this: whether life means anything or not, joy is real. Life lives, life is living.

I think that the farmer displaces the Indian even because he redeems the meadow, and so makes himself stronger and in some respects more natural.

larkspur and lupine, foxglove and Indian paintbrush.

She strode across the McGraney boundary without a backward glance, legs cutting twin swatches in the green-black grass. Dawn sunlight simmered on the tip of each blade, and Holly's passage set a surging ripple of light flashing across the meadow. Extraordinary, thought Artemis. What have I lost?

Hope is a walk through a flowering meadow. One does not require that it lead anywhere.

So green this summer and so fresh. There are white and gold daisies among the grass in front of an old wire fence, a meadow with some cows and far in the distance a low rising of the land with something golden on it. Hard to know what it is. No need to know.

What turned me on far more than the flickery silhouette of a bunting or a shrike was a general feeling of well-being: lofty tree-crowns blurred and waving in fresh gusts; the edge of a meadow darkened into mystery by a straggly blackthorn hedge; the intimacy of a single cornflower that no one else would ever notice; the scuffles of secret little beasts through dead leaves or grass, untainted by the absurdity of human institutions.

Normality for me was not a brooding monolith or eerie hummock but a cosy beechwood or a meadow with horses in it or, to my slight embarrassment, the residential streets around town. There you could see into people's back gardens and glimpse their messy kitchens or sitting rooms; I'd walk there incessantly, supping on homely ordinariness.

Louis] knew on some level that fame is not the story we tell; it is the story the world tells us. And the world was telling Louis it wanted to see itself reflected in gouache and charcoal of painted calico; that the human eye longed to trust the illusion of likeness. Render perfectly a meadow at dusk, a horizon at dawn, and people will love you for it. For giving them something they didn't know they already had.

Often I am permitted to return to a meadowas if it were a given property of the mindthat certain bounds hold against chaos,that is a place of first permission,everlasting omen of what is.

You do see me crossing the meadow stiff and dead from the mist? I long for that home, that home I've never had, and without any hope that I'll ever be able to reach it. For such a home, never touched, I carry that longing that will never die, like that meadow dies stiff and dead from the mist. You do see me crossing it, full of dread?

The herb border ran wild, and the air smelled wonderful; the breezes often stirred the piney, mossy smell of the forest with the sharp smell of herbs, mixed in the warm smell of fresh bread from the kitchen, and then flung the result over the meadow like a handful of new gold coins.

This life of ours...human life is like a flower gloriously blooming in a meadow: along comes a goat, eats it up---no more flower.

The sky is a meadow of wildstar flowers.

The first place that I can well remember, was a large pleasant meadow with a pond of clear water in it. Some shady trees leaned over it, and rushes and water-lilies grew at the deep end. Over the hedge on one side we looked into a plowed field, and on the other we looked over a gate at our master's house, which stood by the roadside;

If I'm honest, the thing I am proudest of is my varieties of wild flowers in the hay meadow.

And yet it was not Buckkeep that came to my mind, but a meadow overlooking the sea, and a girl in bright red skirts who beckoned me. A time, rather than a place. No road led there anymore.

You can stand at the edge of the meadow and look across to Sweden!

The beauty of that meadow reminded Hannah of the reasons to live in the world, and the reasons to mistrust those who saw wickedness in others, but never in themselves.