Quotes About River

If the river were whiskey and I was a diving duck . . .

The river and the garden have been the foundations of my economy here. Of the two I have liked the river best. It is wonderful to have the duty of being on the river the first and last thing every day. I have loved it even in the rain. Sometimes I have loved it most in the rain.

But faith is not necessarily, or not soon, a resting place. Faith puts you out on a wide river in a boat, in the fog, in the dark. Even a man of faith knows that (as Burley Coulter used to say) we've all got to go through enough to kill us.

At the window he sits and looks out, musing on the river, a little brown hen duck paddling upstream among the windwaves close to the far bank. What he has understood lies behind him like a road in the woods. He is a wilderness looking out at the wild.

Here on the river I have known peace and beauty such as I never knew in any other place. There is always work here that I need to be doing and I have many worries, for life on the edge seems always threatening to go over the edge. But I am always surprised, when I look back on times here that I know to have been laborious or worrisome or sad, to discover that they were never out of the presence of peace and beauty, for here I have been always in the world itself.

As I did not know then but know now, the surface of the river is like a living soul, which is easy to disturb, is often disturbed, but, growing calm, shows what it was, is, and will be.

The river, the river itself, leaves marks but bears none. It is only water flowing in a path that other water has worn.

Oh Mary, go and call the cattle home…Across the sands of Dee.

Love is a choice. It's a decision.' She told us, 'It flows into, through, and out of each person like a river. If you try to stop it, it'll sneak around until It finds another heart and breaks through.

My life had been characterized by emptiness the size of the Sahara but there, in that moment, in the back of that truck in the armpit of Nicaragua, I wondered—for the first time—if there wasn't a river flowing down deep inside me. If so, the water that would cleanse me was not water from my head—where I'd learned to rationalize my indifference. But water from my heart.

What I'm trying to say, and not doing a very good job at, is...will you ride the river with me?

I imagined our mother crossing a great river on Lady's strong back, finally leaving us nearly three years after she died. I wanted it to be true. It was the thing I wished for when I had a wish to make.

Dónde estaba mi madre?, me pregunté. Había cargado con ella durante mucho tiempo, tambaleándome bajo su peso. «Al otro lado del río», me permití pensar. Y algo dentro de mí se liberó. En

Where was my mother? I wondered. I'd carried her so long, staggering beneath her weight. On the other side of the river, I let myself think. And something inside of me released.

Era um rio podre, contudo eu ainda via alguma graça ali onde ele fazia a curva, no modo peculiar daquela curva, penso que a curva é o gesto de um rio. E assim o reconheci, como às vezes se reconhece num homem velho o trejeito infantil, mais lento apenas.

And when the spring breezes blow up the valley; when the spring sun shines on last year's withered grass on the river banks; and on the lake; and on the lake's two white swans; and coaxes the new grass out of the spongy soil in the marshes - who could believe on such a day that this peaceful, grassy valley brooded over the story of our past; and over its spectres?

Siberia! The mainland of Asia … the delta of the mighty Lena River.

Eliza made her desperate retreat across the river just in the dusk of twilight. The gray mist of evening, rising slowly from the river, enveloped her as she disappeared up the bank, and the swollen current and floundering masses of ice presented a hopeless barrier between her and her pursuer.

The water of the river is the calmest, where the deepest.

He who glides dreamily down the glassy surface of a mighty river floats securely, making his calculations to row upward. He knows nothing what the force of that seemingly glassy current will be when his one feeble oar is set against the whole volume of its waters.

Now Bridal Veil Falls, stern and forbidding in winter, was leaping down joyously to join the San Miguel River.

Trout-coloured water breaking over rocks.

O sleepless as the river under thee, / Vaulting the sea, the prairies' dreaming sod, / Onto us lowliest sometime sweep, descend / And of the curveship lend a myth to God.

To know there is a choice is to have to make the choice: change or stay: river or rock.