Quotes About Grass

A people without history is like wind on the buffalo grass.

But first, rice diversified and spread around the world. It is a water-loving grass that reaches up to sixteen feet in flooded fields. However, it does not have to grow in standing water. Its peculiar method of cultivation in rice paddies probably came about when people noticed healthy rice plants growing in flooded fields during the monsoon season. The

I filmed an interstitial with Allisyn Ashley Arm and Matthew Scott Montgomery one day. And we made up this weird thing 'cause we had to lay in the grass for, like, ten hours, and it was really itchy. So we call ourselves The Grass Gang.

No matter what you do in the offseason, you can't simulate putting spikes on and standing in the grass and being around your teammates. When you're around your teammates, you step it up a notch. It's just kind of instinctive you do that.

The grass, the sound of the ball, the jokes with my teammates - that's what I will miss most. That is what fulfills you most on a daily basis.

Nexus I wrote stubbornly into the evening. At the window, a giant praying mantis rubbed his monkey wrench head against the glass, begging vacantly with pale eyes; and the commas leapt at me like worms or miniature scythes blackened with age. the praying mantis screeched louder, his ragged jaws opening into formlessness. I walked outside; the grass hissed at my heels. Up ahead in the lapping darkness he wobbled, magnified and absurdly green, a brontosaurus, a poet.

She seems so depressed sometimes by the monotony and boredom of her city life, I thought maybe in this endless grass and wind she would see a thing that sometimes comes when monotony and boredom are accepted. It's here, but I have no names for it.

I hope later she will see and feel a thing about these prairies I have given up talking to others about; a thing that exists here because everything else does not and can be noticed because other things are absent. She seems so depressed sometimes by the monotony and boredom of her city life, I thought maybe in this endless grass and wind she would see a thing that sometimes comes when monotony and boredom are accepted. It's here, but I have no names for it.

Dirt's a funny thing,' the Boss said. 'Come to think of it, there ain't a thing but dirt on this green God's globe except what's under water, and that's dirt too. It's dirt makes the grass grow. A diamond ain't a thing in the world but a piece of dirt that got awful hot. And God-a-Mighty picked up a handful of dirt and blew on it and made you and me and George Washington and mankind blessed in faculty and apprehension. It all depends on what you do with the dirt. That right?

I hope later she will see and feel a thing about these parries I have given up talking to others about; a thing that exists here because everything else does not and can be noticed because other things are absent. She seems so depressed sometimes by the monotony and boredom of her city life, I thought maybe this endless grass and wind she would see a thing that sometimes comes when monotony and boredom are accepted.

Soon the whites would come, of course, but what he was seeing was a moment between, not the plains as they had been, or as they would be, but a moment of true emptiness, with thousands of miles of grass resting unused, occupied only by remnants—of the buffalo, the Indians, the hunters.

In the West the land was level, and there were no trees. The grass grew thick and high. There the wild animals wandered and fed as though they were in a pasture that stretched much farther than a man could see, and there were no settlers. Only Indians lived there.

In despair, he left that farm and came to Bone Gap when it was a huge expanse of empty fields, drawn here by the grass and the bees and the strange sensation that this was a magical place, that the bones of the world were little looser here, double-jointed, twisting back on themselves, leaving spaces one could slip into and hide.

THE MAIN PIECE of the body lay on the ground, on its back in the middle of a smooth grassy field. In the predawn gloom everything looked gray, but there were scuffed and paler places around the field; I think we were standing in the middle of a softball field. The "we" was Edward, U.S. Marshal Ted Forrester, and me, U.S. Marshal Anita Blake.

I would change policy, bring back natural grass and nickel beer. Baseball is the belly-button of our society. Straighten out baseball, and you straighten out the rest of the world.

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.

In my defense I have only silence, dew on the grass, a nightingale among the branches. You forgive it, its long tenure in the leaves of one aspen after another, drops of eternity, grams of amazement, and the sleepy complaints of the poor poets

She was composed. Calm. As calm as the sea, the grass, these old trees. She floated in the nowness of everything.

There is a man sleeping in the grass. And over him is gathering the greatest storm of all his days. Such lightening and thunder will come there has never been seen before, bringing death and destruction. People hurry home past him, to places safe from danger. And whether they do not see him there in the grass, or whether they fear to halt even a moment, but they do not wake him, they let him be.

To light a fire wood must burn. To feed the cow, the grass must be cut. Until the rakshasas learn to trust us, we will be seen as threats and rivals. Until then there will be violence. They will be hurt. We will also be hurt. What matters is our intention. Eventually relationships will be introduced and affection will prevail.

She could smell the sea in the air, but more than that, she could smell the scent of the grass as it awoke from its winter slumber. She could hear the sound of crickets as they sang to the emerging stars.

In a snowfall that covers the winter grass a white heron uses his own whiteness to disappear.

Robots do not hold on to life. They can't. They have nothing to hold on with - no soul, no instinct. Grass has more will to live than they do.

He knelt in the grass and gently pulled off the helmet. A familiar face smiled up at him. Charlie couldn't speak. His astonishment, his joy was too great. He could feel the others gathering behind him, murmuring, 'It can't be!' 'Is it, really?' 'Why didn't we know?