Billows Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
a-cloud-is-made-billows-upon-billows-upon-billows-that-look-like-clouds-as-you-come-closer-to-cloud-you-dont-get-something-smooth-but-irregularities-at-smaller-scale
the-pilot-cannot-mitigate-billows-calm-winds-plutarch
who-neer-knew-salt-heard-billows-roar-homer
character-is-formed-in-stormy-billows-world-johann-wolfgang-von-goethe
his-mind-has-clearness-deep-sea-patience-its-rocks-force-its-billows-charlotte-bronte
waning-moons-their-settled-periods-keep-to-swell-billows-ferment-deep-joseph-addison
the-storm-is-master-man-as-ball-is-tossed-twixt-winds-billows-friedrich-schiller
talents-are-best-nurtured-in-solitude-but-character-is-best-formed-in-the-stormy-billows-of-the-world
i-will-show-wonders-in-heavens-on-earth-blood-fire-billows-smoke-joel-230
i-will-show-wonders-in-heaven-above-signs-on-earth-below-blood-fire-billows-smoke-acts-219
never-make-permanent-decision-based-on-temporary-storm-no-matter-how-raging-billows-are-today-remind-yourself-this-too-shall-pass-t-d-jakes
when-peace-like-river-attendeth-my-way-when-sorrow-like-sea-billows-roll-whatever-my-lot-thou-hast-taught-me-to-say-it-is-well-it-is-well-with-my-horatio-spafford
morn-on-waters-purple-bright-bursts-on-billows-flushing-light-oer-glad-waves-like-child-sun-see-tall-vessel-goes-gallantly-on-thomas-kibble-hervey
i-know-nothing-which-can-comfort-soul-calm-swelling-billows-sorrow-grief-speak-peace-to-winds-trial-as-devout-musing-upon-subject-godhead-charles-spurgeon
she-took-me-to-her-bedroom-smelled-like-cheap-hotel-never-had-cajun-queen-im-used-to-southern-belles-but-through-smoky-billows-my-tobacco-leaves-i-toby-keith
there-is-god-sky-his-presence-shareshis-hand-upheaves-billows-in-their-mirthdestroys-mighty-yet-humble-sparesand-with-contentment-crowns-thought-charlotte-saunders-cushman
how-much-do-i-love-thee-go-ask-deep-sea-how-many-rare-gems-in-its-coral-caves-be-or-ask-broad-billows-that-ceaselessly-roar-how-many-bright-sands-do-mary-ashley-townsend
for-thou-hadst-cast-me-into-the-deep-in-the-midst-of-the-seas-and-the-floods-compassed-me-about-all-thy-billows-and-thy-waves-passed-over-me
he-who-bridles-fury-billows-knows-also-to-put-stop-to-secret-plans-wicked-submitting-with-respect-to-his-holy-will-i-fear-god-have-no-other-jean-racine
he-thinks-rotten-parachute-they-played-with-as-kids-in-arcadia-they-hurtle-through-life-aging-unimaginably-fast-but-each-grasps-silken-edge-memory-that-billows-between-them-softe
Once to swim I sought the sea-side, There to sport among the billows; With the stone of many colors Sank poor Aino to the bottom Of the deep and boundless blue-sea, Like a pretty son-bird, perished. Never come a-fishing, father, To the borders of these waters, Never during all thy life-time, As thou lovest daughter Aino. Mother dear, I sought the sea-side, There to sport among the billows; With the stone of many colors, Sank poor Aino to the bottom Of the deep and boundless blue-sea, Like a pretty song-bird perished. Never mix thy bread, dear mother, With the blue-sea's foam and waters, Never during all thy life-time, As thou lovest daughter Aino. Brother dear, I sought the sea-side, There to sport among the billows; With the stone of many colors Sank poor Aino to the bottom Of the deep and boundless blue-sea, Like a pretty song-bird perished. Never bring thy prancing war-horse, Never bring thy royal racer, Never bring thy steeds to water, To the borders of the blue-sea, Never during all thy life-time, As thou lovest sister Aino. Sister dear, I sought the sea-side, There to sport among the billows; With the stone of many colors Sank poor Aino to the bottom Of the deep and boundless blue-sea, Like a pretty song-bird perished. Never come to lave thine eyelids In this rolling wave and sea-foam, Never during all thy life-time, As thou lovest sister Aino. All the waters in the blue-sea Shall be blood of Aino's body; All the fish that swim these waters Shall be Aino's flesh forever; All the willows on the sea-side Shall be Aino's ribs hereafter; All the sea-grass on the margin Will have grown from Aino's tresses.

Elias Le¶nnrot
once-to-swim-i-sought-seaside-there-to-sport-among-billows-with-stone-many-colors-sank-poor-aino-to-bottom-of-deep-boundless-bluesea-like-pretty-sonbird-perished-never-come-fishi
many-rocks-the-rapid-has-a-lot-of-billows-the-sea-more-plentiful-are-my-cares-than-cones-on-a-spruce-beard-moss-on-a-juniper-gnarls-upon-a-pine-bark-amorphis
deep-calleth-unto-deep-at-the-noise-of-thy-waterspouts-all-thy-waves-and-thy-billows-are-gone-over-me
inexpensive-progress-encase-your-legs-in-nylons-bestride-your-hills-with-pylons-o-age-without-soul-away-with-gentle-willows-and-all-elmy-billows-that-through-your-valleys-roll-le
One night he sits up. In cots around him are a few dozen sick or wounded. A warm September wind pours across the countryside and sets the walls of the tent rippling. Werner's head swivels lightly on his neck. The wind is strong and gusting stronger, and the corners of the tent strain against their guy ropes, and where the flaps at the two ends come up, he can see trees buck and sway. Everything rustles. Werner zips his old notebook and the little house into his duffel and the man beside him murmurs questions to himself and the rest of the ruined company sleeps. Even Werner's thirst has faded. He feels only the raw, impassive surge of the moonlight as it strikes the tent above him and scatters. Out there, through the open flaps of the tent, clouds hurtle above treetops. Toward Germany, toward home. Silver and blue, blue and silver. Sheets of paper tumble down the rows of cots, and in Werner's chest comes a quickening. He sees Frau Elena kneel beside the coal stove and bank up the fire. Children in their beds. Baby Jutta sleeps in her cradle. His father lights a lamp, steps into an elevator, and disappears. The voice of Volkheimer: What you could be. Werner's body seems to have gone weightless under his blanket, and beyond the flapping tent doors, the trees dance and the clouds keep up their huge billowing march, and he swings first one leg and then the other off the edge of the bed. 'Ernst, ' says the man beside him. 'Ernst.' But there is no Ernst; the men in the cots do not reply; the American soldier at the door of the tent sleeps. Werner walks past him into the grass. The wind moves through his undershirt. He is a kite, a balloon. Once, he and Jutta built a little sailboat from scraps of wood and carried it to the river. Jutta painted the vessel in ecstatic purples and greens, and she set it on the water with great formality. But the boat sagged as soon as the current got hold of it. It floated downstream, out of reach, and the flat black water swallowed it. Jutta blinked at Werner with wet eyes, pulling at the battered loops of yarn in her sweater. 'It's all right, ' he told her. 'Things hardly ever work on the first try. We'll make another, a better one.' Did they? He hopes they did. He seems to remember a little boat-a more seaworthy one-gliding down a river. It sailed around a bend and left them behind. Didn't it? The moonlight shines and billows; the broken clouds scud above the trees. Leaves fly everywhere. But the moonlight stays unmoved by the wind, passing through clouds, through air, in what seems to Werner like impossibly slow, imperturbable rays. They hang across the buckling grass. Why doesn't the wind move the light? Across the field, an American watches a boy leave the sick tent and move against the background of the trees. He sits up. He raises his hand. 'Stop, ' he calls. 'Halt, ' he calls. But Werner has crossed the edge of the field, where he steps on a trigger land mine set there by his own army three months before, and disappears in a fountain of earth.

Anthony Doerr
one-night-he-sits-up-in-cots-around-him-are-few-dozen-sick-wounded-a-warm-september-wind-pours-across-countryside-sets-walls-tent-rippling-werners-head-swivels-lightly-on-his-nec
[Robert's eulogy at his brother, Ebon C. Ingersoll's grave. Even the great orator Robert Ingersoll was choked up with tears at the memory of his beloved brother] The record of a generous life runs like a vine around the memory of our dead, and every sweet, unselfish act is now a perfumed flower. Dear Friends: I am going to do that which the dead oft promised he would do for me. The loved and loving brother, husband, father, friend, died where manhood's morning almost touches noon, and while the shadows still were falling toward the west. He had not passed on life's highway the stone that marks the highest point; but, being weary for a moment, he lay down by the wayside, and, using his burden for a pillow, fell into that dreamless sleep that kisses down his eyelids still. While yet in love with life and raptured with the world, he passed to silence and pathetic dust. Yet, after all, it may be best, just in the happiest, sunniest hour of all the voyage, while eager winds are kissing every sail, to dash against the unseen rock, and in an instant hear the billows roar above a sunken ship. For whether in mid sea or 'mong the breakers of the farther shore, a wreck at last must mark the end of each and all. And every life, no matter if its every hour is rich with love and every moment jeweled with a joy, will, at its close, become a tragedy as sad and deep and dark as can be woven of the warp and woof of mystery and death. This brave and tender man in every storm of life was oak and rock; but in the sunshine he was vine and flower. He was the friend of all heroic souls. He climbed the heights, and left all superstitions far below, while on his forehead fell the golden dawning, of the grander day. He loved the beautiful, and was with color, form, and music touched to tears. He sided with the weak, the poor, and wronged, and lovingly gave alms. With loyal heart and with the purest hands he faithfully discharged all public trusts. He was a worshipper of liberty, a friend of the oppressed. A thousand times I have heard him quote these words: 'For Justice all place a temple, and all season, summer!' He believed that happiness was the only good, reason the only torch, justice the only worship, humanity the only religion, and love the only priest. He added to the sum of human joy; and were every one to whom he did some loving service to bring a blossom to his grave, he would sleep to-night beneath a wilderness of flowers. Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks of two eternities. We strive in vain to look beyond the heights. We cry aloud, and the only answer is the echo of our wailing cry. From the voiceless lips of the unreplying dead there comes no word; but in the night of death hope sees a star and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing. He who sleeps here, when dying, mistaking the approach of death for the return of health, whispered with his latest breath, 'I am better now.' Let us believe, in spite of doubts and dogmas, of fears and tears, that these dear words are true of all the countless dead. And now, to you, who have been chosen, from among the many men he loved, to do the last sad office for the dead, we give his sacred dust. Speech cannot contain our love. There was, there is, no gentler, stronger, manlier man.

Robert G. Ingersoll
roberts-eulogy-at-his-brother-ebon-c-ingersolls-grave-even-great-orator-robert-ingersoll-was-choked-up-with-tears-at-memory-his-beloved-brother-the-record-generous-life-runs-like
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