Quotes
Quotes about Sea
When one tugs at a single thing in nature, he finds it attached to the rest of the world. â¢John Muir Absence of occupation is not rest; A mind quite vacant is a mind distressed. â¢William Cowper No rest is worth anything except the rest that is earned. â¢Jean Paul Sundays, quiet islands on the tossing seas of life. â¢S. W. Duffield Rest is the sweet sauce of labor. â¢Plutarch I cannot believe that the inscrutable universe turns on an axis of suffering; surely the strange beauty of the world must somewhere rest on pure joy! â¢Louise A. Bogan A friend is one who walks in when the rest of the world walks out. â¢Walter Winchell One dog barks at something, the rest bark at him. â¢Chinese Proverb How beautiful is it to do nothing, and then rest afterward. â¢Proverb The voice of the intellect is a soft one, but it does not rest till it has gained a hearing.
So holy writ in babes hath judgment shown When judges have been babes; great floods have flown From simple sources, and great seas have dried When miracles have by the greatest been denied.
Is not this a lamentable thing, that of the skin of an innocent lamb should be made parchment? that parchment, being scribbled o'er, should undo a man? Some say the bee stings, but I say 'tis the bee's wax; for I did but seal once to a thing, and I was never mind own man since.
Sit in reverie and watch the changing color of the waves that break upon the idle seashore of the mind.
O God! that one might read the book of fate, And see the revolution of the times Make mountains level. and the continent, Weary of solid firmness, melt itself Into the sea!
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree; Where Alph, the sacred river ran, Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea.
Two ways the rivers Leap down to different seas, and as they roll Grow deep and still, and their majestic presence Becomes a benefaction to the towns They visit, wandering silently among them, Like patriarchs old among their shining tents.
How sweet to move at summer's eve By Clyde's meandering stream, When Sol in joy is seen to leave The earth with crimson beam; When islands that wandered far Above his sea couch lie, And here and there some gem-like star Re-opes its sparkling eye.
He who does not know his way to the sea should take a river for his guide. [Fr., Les rivieres sont des chemins qui marchant et qui portent ou l'on veut aller.]
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs, Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes, Being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers' tears. What is it else? A madness most discreet, A choking gall and a preserving sweet.
O rose, who dares to name thee? No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet, But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubblewheat,-- Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee.
And thus, what can we do, Poor rose and poet too, Who both antedate our mission In an unprepared season?
I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute, From the centre all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
Broad-based upon her people's will, And compassed by the inviolate sea.
Behold this ruin! 'Twas a skull Once of ethereal spirit full! This narrow cell was Life's retreat; This place was Thought's mysterious seat! What beauteous pictures fill'd that spot, What dreams of pleasure, long forgot! Nor Love, nor Joy, nor Hope, nor Fear, Has left one trace, one record here.
If politics is the art of the possible, research is surely the art of the soluble. Both are immensely practical-minded affairs.
But beyond the bright searchlights of science, Out of sight of the windows of sense, Old riddles still bid us defiance, Old questions of Why and of Whence.
The research rat of the future allows experimentation without manipulation of the real world. This is the cutting edge of modeling technology.
Most wondrous book! bright candle of the Lord! Star of Eternity! The only star By which the bark of man could navigate The sea of life, and gain the coast of bliss Securely.
We search the world for truth; we cull The good, the pure, the beautiful, From all old flower fields of the soul; And, weary seeker of the best, We come back laden from out quest, To find that all the sages said Is in the Book our mothers read.
The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought, alone.
The great fishpond (the sea).
How joyously the young sea-mew Lay dreaming on the waters blue, Whereon our little bark had thrown A little shade, the only one; But shadows ever man pursue.
When seagulls follow a trawler, it is because they think sardines will be thrown into the sea.
Between the two seas the sea-bird's wing makes halt, Wind-weary; while with lifting head he waits For breath to reinspire him from the gates That open still toward sunrise on the vault High-domed of morning. - Algernon Charles Swinburne,
