Quotes About River

look across the culvert that holds the greenish residue of the Rio Grande

And she remembered the tears that had come from some hidden river in her eyes. Had fallen on her hand, on her lap, on the knife. Silent, they had coursed, beyond her willing, beyond her power to start or stop.

Love fills everything. It cannot be desired because it is an end in itself. It cannot betray because it has nothing to do with possession. It cannot be held prisoner because it is a river and will overflow its banks. Anyone who tries to imprison love will cut off the spring that feeds it, and the trapped water will grow stagnant.

By the River Piedra I sat down and wept. There is a legend that everything that falls into the waters of this river -- leaves, insects, the feathers of birds -- is transformed into the rocks that make the riverbed. If only I could tear out my heart and hurl it into the current, then my pain and longing would be over, and I could finally forget.

I gaze lovingly at Hilal a love that is reflected through time or what we imagine to be time, as in a mirror. She was never mine and never will be; that is how it is. We are both creators and creatures, but we are also puppets in God's hands, and there is a line we cannot cross, a line that was drawn for reasons we cannot know. We can approach and even dabble our toes in the river but we are forbidden to plunge in and let ourselves be carried along by the current.

There is a legend that everything that falls into the waters of this river -- leaves, insects, the feathers of birds -- is transformed into the rocks that make the riverbed. If only I could tear out my heart and hurl it into the current, then my pain and longing would be over, and I could finally forget.

A calm ocean is safer than a raging river.

The Taj Mahal rises above the banks of the river like a solitary tear suspended on the cheek of time.

This is the river of the great 19th-century landscapists; of Cole, Cropsey and Church, and at the end of the summer it lies motionless under the haze as under a light coat of varnish.

Somehow you drift along on the river, and one day you wake up and you're someplace you don't want to be, with someone you realize you don't know.

Everything within takes place after Jack died and before my mom and I drowned in a burning ferry in the cool tannin-tinted Guaviare River, in east-central Colombia, with forty-two locals we hadn't yet met. It was a clear and eyeblue day, that day, as was the first day of this story, a few years ago in January, on Chicago's North Side, in the opulent shadow of Wrigley and with the wind coming low and searching off the jagged half-frozen lake.

Mad with terror, many even leaped into the deadly water of the river. 'We're not going to be able to get through that mob, Polgara,' Barak said.

Seems, madam? Nay, it is; I know not seems. 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, That can denote me truly: these indeed seem, For they are actions that a man might play: But I have that within which passeth show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

What's his offense? Groping for trout in a peculiar river.

Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault, Assemble all the poor men of your sort; Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears Into the channel, till the lowest stream Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.

Our home was in a beautiful valley far back in the rugged Ozarks. The country was new and sparsely settled. The land we lived on was Cherokee land, allotted to my mother because of the Cherokee blood that flowed in her veins. It lay in a strip from the foothills of the mountains to the banks of the Illinois River in northeastern Oklahoma.

Few indeed are the instances in history of a river-line athwart the advance of a superior army proving an effective defence

I'm down here looking at the Potomac River; they say George Washington threw a silver dollar across it once. It looks a little bit too far for me to do that trick, but maybe he could. After all, a dollar went further in those days.

Here stood the palace of Syennesis, the king of the country; and through the middle of the city flows a river called the Cydnus, two hundred feet broad.

Long after midnight when you park, and stand Just for a moment in the chromium wash, Sometimes it seems that, some way off, Between the river and the tower belt, say, The roofs show black on pomegranate red As if, below that line, they stood on fire.

Comencé a embriagarme con la vista que tenía alrededor, observando como el sol se alzaba sobre la falda de la montaña, tiñendo el río de dorado. En breve me encontraría a la altura de esa cima.

Everything imprecise, but suddenly in imprecision she found a clearness that she had only sensed and hadn't been able to possess entirely. Perturbed she thought: everything, everything. Words are pebbles rolling in the river. It wasn't happiness that she felt then, but what she felt was fluid, sweetly amorphous, resplendent instant, somber instant.

The Seine. I have painted it all my life, at all hours of the day, at all times of the year, from Paris to the sea…Argenteuil, Poissy, Vétheuil, Giverny, Rouen, Le Havre.

He [Mihaly Babits] hoped that some god might offer a bed to the river of words which rose to his lips, so that it might flow between ordered banks to the sea, there to vanish.