Quotes About Lakes

One doesn't compare [The Lakes] with Paris, it is the difference I find stimulating.

Lady Glendora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks.

Your lips are for songs about rivers in the morning and lakes at twilight.

It was a day in March, and the sky was a faint green with the first hint of spring. In Central Park, five hundred feet below, the earth caught the tone of the sky in a shade of brown that promised to become green, and the lakes lay like splinters of glass under the cobwebs of bare branches.

Oh land of farms and green hills mild Once formed by giants rough and wild With massive paws they gripped and tore With one great rip they formed the shore Where heavy boots left prints so deep Blue lakes remain 'tween summits steep The giants fought beneath our skies And from their bones our mountains rise

The sky surprised me. It was a deep blue, the blue of a sorcerer's hat, of night skies in old Technicolor movies, of deep mountain lakes in Swiss countrysides pictured on old puzzle boxes.

There is a gentleness in Michigan that you just can't replicate.

In de muziekles zong zij liedjes over niets dan engeltjes met gouden vleugels, madonna's, meren, gondeliers: rimpelloze romances die haar tussen de beuzelachtige woorden en de onbeholpen klanken door een korte blik vergunden op de betoverende wereld van de werkelijke sentimenten.

It's tough to find a place not to like in Switzerland.

Spirit is a land of high white peaks and glittering jewel-like lakes and flowers. Life is sparse and sounds travel great distances.

May lily-dotted lakes delight your eye; May shade-trees bid the heat of noonday cease; May soft winds blow the lotus-pollen nigh; May all your path be pleasantness and peace.

The lakes are something which you are unprepared for; they lie up so high, exposed to the light, and the forest is diminished to a fine fringe on their edges, with here and there a blue mountain, like amethyst jewels set around some jewel of the first water, - so anterior, so superior, to all the changes that are to take place on their shores, even now civil and refined, and fair as they can ever be.

Whether being battered by the surf or swimming through the gentle undulating surface of lakes, I find inspiration in the movement of water. Sometimes I think about the journey the water has traveled, reconnecting me to the larger cycles of nature.

If you live in the mountains, you long for the trees and the lakes.

I grew up in the old neighborhood of Beijing where you had a courtyard and trees. Actually, the whole of Beijing was a garden - the Forbidden City - and the lakes and gardens in the city center were all artificial.

The echo of birdcalls was sharp and ghostly, sounding out of the silence in forlorn reverberation across the wider expanse of the lakes before disappearing into the dark maze of the surrounding woods. Mist clung in thick blankets to the mountaintops. The air was sharp and clear, and you could see the details of clefts in the rocks of snow-cropped defiles that were miles away.

The artificial hills and plazas of even small centers were symbolic depictions of the sacred landscape of mountains, hills, trees, and lakes, material replicas of the Maya cosmos designed as the settings for elaborate public rituals that sanctified Maya life—and water management. Tikal, Belize's Caracol, and other centers were giant water catchments, their pyramids "water mountains.

Light takes darkness vanish and worlds reappear. Light opens each day with a blaring overture, then throws its wands to earth and casts diamonds on lakes and oceans. Each night, lights tricks make the stars seem alive.

Few are the foreheads which like Shakespeare's or Melancthon's rise so high, and descend so low, that the eyes themselves seem clear, eternal, tideless mountain lakes; and all above them in the forehead's wrinkles, you seem to track the antlered thoughts descending there to drink, as the Highland hunters track the snow prints of the deer.

I love everything Minnesota.

I grew up in Minnesota.

The flat was small and smelt of ancient things with which Gildas had not contended. In the sitting room shadowy photographs of Italian lakes had been hung high up by a previous tenant.

Is heaven more beautiful than the country of the muskox in summer when sometimes the mist blows over the lakes, and sometimes the water is blue, and the loons cry very often?

Time passes in the rain that doesn't fall, in the lakes and rivers that we don't reach.