Quotes About River

The water of the fountain ran, the swift river ran, the day ran into evening, so much life in the city ran into death according to rule, time and tide waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together in their dark holes again, the Fancy Ball was lighted up at supper, all things ran their course.

He was gobbling mincemeat, meatbone, bread, cheese, and pork pie, all at once: staring distrustfully while he did so at the mist all round us, and often stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen. Some real or fancied sound, some clink upon the river or breathing of beast upon the marsh, now gave him a start, and he said, suddenly,—

The night was as dark by this time as it would be until morning; and what light we had, seemed to come from the river than the sky, as the oars in their dipping struck at a few reflected stars.

She watched his face as earnestly as he watched the river. But, in the intensity of her look there was a touch of dread or horror.

Having made this lunatic confession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I had some thoughts of following it.

Oh, the river!…I know it's like me…I know that I belong to it. I know that it's the natural company of such as I am! It comes from country places, where there once was no harm in it—and it creeps through the dismal streets, defiled and miserable—and it goes away, like my life, to a great sea, that is always troubled—and I feel that I must go with it!

The night was dark by this time as it would be until morning; what light we had, seemed to come more from the river than the sky, as the oars in their dipping struck at a few reflected stars.

Ideas can no more flow backward than can a river.

Love is a river of risk that ends in an ocean of security.

There's May amid the meadows There's May amid the trees... Above the rippling river May swallows skim and dart; November and December Keep watch within my heart.

The prevailing note in the Amazon is one of monotony," thought Kenneth Grubb, "the same green lines the river-bank, the same gloom fills the forest. . . . Each successive bend in the river is rounded in expectancy, only to reveal another identical stretch ahead.

Spirit is Life It flows thru the death of me endlessly like a river unafraid of becoming the sea

This is what was bequeathed us: This earth the beloved left And, leaving, Left to us. No other world But this one: Willows and the river And the factory With its black smokestacks. No other shore, only this bank On which the living gather. No meaning but what we find here. No purpose but what we make. That, and the beloved's clear instructions: Turn me into song; sing me awake.

I used to walk by the river An old book under my arm The river is the same as pain It elapses mindlessly And when will the week be over

Some writers later, describing the events of that night and day, wrote that Wan'yen of the Altai had seen a spirit-dragon of the river and become afraid. Writers do that sort of thing. They like dragons in their tales.

And so saw, by a trick, an angle, a flaring of torchlight far down the dark river, how the arrow—white-feathered, she would remember, white as innocence, as winter in midsummer, as death—fell from the summit of its long, high arc to take the coran in the shoulder, driving him, slack and helpless, from the rope into the river amid laughter turned to screaming in the night.

and the world's possibilities were hidden from her like the west bank of the river in an autumn fog.

There's music along the river For Love wanders there, Pale flowers on his mantle, Dark leaves on his hair.

Usher's Island

As he crossed Grattan Bridge he looked down the river towards the lower quays and pitied the poor stunted houses. They seemed to him a band of tramps, huddled together along the riverbanks, their old coats covered with dust and soot, stupefied by the panorama of sunset and waiting for the first chill of night bid them arise, shake themselves and begone.

There's music along the river For Love wanders there

Departe, de-a lungul cursului leneÈ™ului Liffey, catarge zvelte t?rcau cerul È™i, mai departe înc?, urzeala tulbure a oraÈ™ului z?cea prosternat? în pâcl?.

The faint sour stink of rotted cabbages came towards him from the kitchengardens on the rising ground above the river. He smiled to think that it was this disorder, the misrule and confusion of his father's house and the stagnation of vegetable life, which was to win the day in his soul.

A vague dissatisfaction grew up within him as he looked on the quays and on the river and on the lowering skies and yet he continued to wander up and down day after day as if he really sought someone that eluded him