Quotes About Tranquility

to walk alone in London is the greatest rest.

When you are silent you are again beautiful.

there was only the sound of the sea.

Heaven be praised for solitude!

I can sit alone by an open window for hours if I like, and hear only bird songs, and the rustle of leaves. The trees are pure gold and orange

So loveliness reigned and stillness, and together made the shape of loveliness itself, a form from which life had parted; solitary like a pool at evening, far distant, seen from a train window, vanishing so quickly that the pool, pale in the evening, is scarcely robbed of its solitude, though once seen.

He would look over the edge of the sofa down into the sea.

Here, she felt, putting the spoon down, was the still space that lies about the heart of things, where one could move or rest...

I can't imagine anything nicer than to sit out in the moonlight and listen to music—

Mrs. Dalloway raised her hand to her eyes, and, as the maid shut the door to, and she heard the swish of Lucy's skirts, she felt like a nun who has left the world and feels fold round her the familiar veils and the response to old devotions.

and it was the moment between six and seven when every flower-roses, carnations, irises, lilac-glows; white, violet, red, deep orange; every flower seems to burn by itself, softly purely in the misty beds; and how she loved the grey-white moths spinning in and out, over the cherry pie, over the evening primroses!

An open page displays lines from Cymbeline, a song of death, a lament: "'Fear no more the heat o' the sun/Nor the furious winter's rages.

Strolling through those colleges past those ancient halls the roughness of the present seemed smoothed away; the body seemed contained in a miraculous glass cabinet through which no sound could penetrate, and the mind, freed from any contact with facts

Very gently and quietly, almost as if it were the blood singing in her veins, or the water of the stream running over stones, she became conscious of a new feeling within her. She wondered for a moment what it was, and then said to herself, with a little surprise at recognising in her own person so famous a thing: is happiness.

Aki elveszti személyiségét, elveszti vele a nyugtalanságot, a rohanást, mozgást; amikor a dolgok így összeálltak ebben a békében, ebben a nyugalomban, ebben az örökkévalóságban, mindig ajkára szökött valamiféle diadalittas kiáltás: gyÅ'zött az élet felett.

Nothing in the world pleases her so well as solitude. She is happiest alone in the country. She loves rambling alone in her woods. She loves going out by herself at night. She loves hiding from callers. She loves walking among her trees and musing.

Later . . ." her sentence bubbled away drip, drip, drip, like a contented tap left running.

For now, she need not think about anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of—to think; well, not even to think. To be silent; to be alone.

she often went into her garden and got from her flowers a peace which men and women never gave her.

the grass still a soft deep green, the house starred in its greenery with purple passion flowers, and rooks dropping cool cries from the high blue. But something moved, flashed, turned a silver wing in the air.

And what is death, if not a face at peace - its artistic perfection.

From far below mounted the clink and tinkle of distant masonry work, and a sudden train passed between gardens, and a heraldic butterfly volant en arrière , sable, a bend gules, traversed the stone parapet, and John Shade took a fresh card.

And a beautiful garden, not far from a beautiful lake, and I said it sounded perfectly perfect.

Las regiones apacibles y vagas en que me movía eran patrimonio de los poetas, no el terreno del crimen