Quotes About Grass

Out of a still, clear day, the wind suddenly picked up. It bowed the grass in his direction, unaccountably lifting his spirits and making him think that maybe she hadn't minded his devotion, after all.

But the photograph hints, too, at another story. I can see it in the tall grass brushing her ankles, the blades bent as if moved by wind.

The sun shone, we were warm. We sat and relaxed on the grass. We were very hungry, but the joy of survival strengthened our spirits. The hunt in the forest was still on, we had to wait here.

All around the circle, feeding on the green, green grass were fat and happy horses...

there is nothing around it save green grass, deciduous

Wind swept dark tatters across a sky rippling with luminous cloud from horizon to horizon like a well-muscled torso, bringing with it the smell of dust and grass and a sweetness she could not identify.

Vibration seeped through Ollfoss like the smell of grass after rain, resonating with the pulse of the world, its heartbeat.

The green grass of Gwynedd was a better way to end than blind agony in a dark, close room.

I am Summer, come to lure you away from your computer... come dance on my fresh grass, dig your toes into my beaches.

Believe me, it is the light or the darkness of our own fate that either gives "greenness to the grass and glory to the flower," or leaves both sickly, wan, and colorless.

Their shadows sported over the hills like cats, chasing the sunlight over sparkling granite and dull slate, the bright dry grass and the small hidden gleams of water.

After all, the war doesn't alter my relationship with a blade of grass.

I grew thinner and more ragged. I slept in rain or sun, on soft grass, moist earth, or sharp stones with an intensity of indifference that only grief can promote.

It was as if he were just playing, splashing and swishing like a child busy cooking up some ghastly brew of water, grass, and mud, which he then asserts to be soup.

And these words of advice, imparted with such undivided grace, filled my limbs with such a lightness that I was lifted and left to glide above the grass, although it appeared to all that I was still among them, wrapped in human tasks, with both feet on the ground.

Memory couldn't be counted on. Time was unreliable and everything dissolved and died—even or especially when it looked like life. Like spring. All around us, the grass grew. Birds made a living racket in the trees. The sun beat down with promise. From that moment forward, Ernest would always hate the spring.

Sounds of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain awaken'd flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass

Don't tell me about the world. Not today. It's springtime and they're knocking baseball around fields where the grass is damp and green in the morning and the kids are trying to hit the curve ball.

Beauty walks this world. It ages everything. I am far and I am an animal and I am just another I-am poem, a we-see poem, a they-love poem. The green. All the different windows. There is so much stone here. And grass. So beautiful each translucent electric blade. And the noise. Cheers folding into traffic. These things. Things that have been already said many times: leaf, zipper, sparrow, lintel, scarf, window shade.

So the Moabites said to the elders of Midian, “This horde will devour everything around us, as an ox licks up the grass of the field.” Since Balak son of Zippor was king of Moab at that time,

is like the light of the morning at sunrise of a cloudless dawn, the glistening after the rain on the sprouting grass of the earth.í

Then Ahab said to Obadiah, “Go throughout the land to every spring and every valley. Perhaps we will find grass to keep the horses and mules alive so that we will not have to destroy any livestock.”

Look at Behemoth, which I made along with you. He feeds on grass like an ox.

May he be like rain that falls on freshly cut grass, like spring showers that water the earth.