Quotes About Grass

Rusty wore jeans, Fiona a long skirt that swept the ground. Dragging its flounces across the damp grass, she looked like a mediaeval lady from the rubric of an illuminated Book of Hours, a remote princess engaged in some now obsolete pastime.

We were going to the long field which today looked like an ocean, although I had never seen an ocean; the grass was moving in the breeze and the cloud shadows passed back and forth and the trees in the distance moved.

The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green.

But you know what my mother says: "With the right kind of luck you can break your nose falling on grass …

Gratitude is confidence in life itself. In it, we feel how the same force that pushes grass through cracks in the sidewalk invigorates our own life.

It left a tuft of wool behind, caught on the matted grasses. I plucked it, and held it to my nose. It had that spicy scent of Keir's. I twirled it in my fingers, and smiled when I realized that Keir smelled like a goat.

A narrow Fellow in the GrassOccasionally rides—

It was a perfect summer's evening. Shade from the trees along the fence line stretched over the grass and a gentle breeze wafted. Crickets hummed in the shrubbery and, above the whole scene, a spectacular sunset spread its pretty bloom over the sky.

When she reached the house the sun had turned the morning air into a shimmering mirage of heat and dust devils. Hannah wished the rains had not finished so early. The land was already parched, stubbled with broken stalks of bleached grass.

I do not like the red carpet; I prefer the green pitch.

You could say heading is a dying art in football because a lot of games are now played tiki-taka on the grass.

We found water. We passed into a more fertile country where were grass and fruit. We found the trail to Babylon because the soul of a free man looks at life as a series of problems to be solved and solves them, while the soul of a slave whines, 'What can I do who am but a slave?

We found water. We passed into a more fertile country where were grass and fruit. We found the trail to Babylon because the soul of a free man looks at life as a series of problems to be solved and solves them, while the soul of a slave whines, 'What can I

moonlight she saw a woman walking quietly away. Her feet did not go crunch, crunch. She walked softly in the tall beach grass.

In her childhood, the grass was green. There were cleats and freshly laundered jerseys with silly team names and sliced oranges on the sideline. And to see the differences, to find these beautiful boys worthy of curiosity, of examination—it's the core of her chosen profession but it feels like human sightseeing. A tour of others. Look at these poor boys, happy despite everything.

Late summer is perfect for classic mysteries - think of Raymond Chandler's hot Santa Anas and Agatha Christie's Mediterranean resorts - while big ambitious works of nonfiction are best approached in September and early October, when we still feel energetic and the grass no longer needs to be cut.

What a benediction is this fragrance of the early morning! The vernal grass fills the whole atmosphere as with a shower of sweetness.

The wind is the moon's imagination wandering. It seeps through cracks, ripples the grass, explores the unknown. My love is my soul's imagination.

Q: Why do midgets laugh when they run? A: Because the grass tickles their balls.

We made music seated on the grass of Brasilia's super-squares, at home, at college. It was a creative time, more ingenuous, when the people amused more themselves, played more.

This soft grass suggests 'softness' to me, but also at the same time 'lying-down-ness'.

A brown spotted lady-bug climbed the dizzy height of a grass blade, and Tom bent down close to it and said, Lady-bug, lady-bug, fly away home, your house is on fire, your children's alone, and she took wing and went off to see about it -- which did not surprise the boy, for he knew of old that this insect was credulous about conflagrations, and he had practised upon its simplicity more than once.

I tell me: Let these words be footsteps, because I have a long way to travel. Let the words walk the dirty streets. Let them make their way across the crying grass. Let them stand and breathe and pant smoke in winter evenings. And when they're tired and have fallen down, let them buckle to their feet ad arc around me, watchful. I want these words to be actions. Give them flesh and bones, I say to me, and eyes of hunger and desire, so they can write and fight me through the night.

And, too, there was that delightful freshness of mist and dewy grass that lingered like spirits at dawn. Marietta