Best 142 quotes in «sand quotes» category

If everyone could just live near the ocean, I think we'd all be happier. It's hard to be down about anything knee deep in the sand.

...He sat back on his heels and watched the stars one by one cut their way through onrushing darkness, till all was reversed, day was night, and the blackness glittered with all the desert's sands, each a tiny flame beyond the bounds of time.

I breathe in... the fragrance of love, and moist sand the one his roses left on both my hands I just keep on breathing every moment as much as I can preserving it, in my body for the day it can’t.

How did you get into the castle, Alexandre, son of Gilles Smith?” Sand shrugged. “A saint kidnapped me from his shrine and put me into a fireplace here. So I guess the answer is, a miracle of Saint Melor. Or so I think. He has not told me.” “If you are trying to antagonize him, you are doing a good job,” Perrotte whispered. Sand scuffed his shoe at her. “I’m just telling the truth!” “You’re very good at telling it in the most maddening way possible.” “Thank you?

If I can write, who possibly can’t. Even drawing a line in the sand is writing

IF you draw a line in the sand you betray the loyalty of your cause

If lighthouse becomes a burning candle, flickered upon ocean's insanity. Your sailing heart there anchors to handle the obsessed breeze towards sand dune's vanity.

If it's dive-bombing you from the air, bury yourself in the sand. It might lose sight of you. Also, no one likes to eat food covered in sand. No one.

I’ll pour my life into your hands like oceans upon your sands if you can always stand to take a little more of me.

I love like I’m thirsty. Can I offer you a tall glass of Sahara sand?

I’m alive,” he groaned. “But I’m not doing a very good job of it.

It is not only the viability and variety of the seed that makes the harvest look plumpy. Sometimes, the soil must value the value of the seed. When the soil is not supportive, the seed's value becomes a waste!

In this delicate and unpredictable life, the future is unwritten. Do not take someone for granted today, for once tomorrow dawns upon the indigo night the only remaining trace will be tracks in the sand...

I still remember the winter sky that evening. Whenever I worked in my sea garden and I saw a sunset like that, I'd think back to Bantham Beach. It was as if the sun had been torn open. Everything was scarlet. The clouds were flames, so wild and vibrant that blue didn't look like a color anymore. The sea and land served as a mirror. The ribbed sand was on fire. So were the stones and maroon rock pools. The pink crests of the waves. The burning hump of Burgh Island.

I miss the floral scent of her hair, the perfume that barely masked the underlying truth of what she was. She was lost time. She smelled of dusty libraries and unwound clocks, salted sand and rain riding on the first rays of dawn. And lilac. When she held me to her, lilac was what I smelled first.

In the land of the ostriches, the blind are king. When politicians bury their head in the sand, ignorance rules the country. ( "High noon." )

It is the fire that consumes me; It is an inexplicable love, It is the rain that calms me; It is a melody from above. It is the wind that humbles me; It is everywhere and nowhere, It is the sand that fuels me; It is the artistry of nature. I’m consumed by what I am, I’m calmed by a riotous noise, I’m humbled through arrogance, I’m fueled by what is in poise. I’ve much cherished the mystifying, I’ve heard the unreal symphonies, I’ve been moved by the inevitable, And I’ve hailed the epiphanies.

It was so long ago now that the job felt like part of her soul. Like being a teacher or an artist who made things out of sand. You never really saw the results. You just trusted that you knew what you were doing and that everything would work out okay in the end.

Sand lines my soul which is filled with the breath of the ocean.

nothing is lifeless when the moon writes its screed on the silvern sand silence -From the poem:"The Universe In Blossom

Off fucking shitty mankind, you change the topic... you say something I say something against and immediately you change the topic, but why? The soil is too hot? The sand is too hot? Why?

One by one, they guessed aloud about what Lotto had meant by this sculpture: nautilus, fiddlehead, galaxy. Thread running off its spindle. Forces of nature, perfect in beauty, perfectly ephemeral, they guessed. He was too shy to say time. He’d woken with a dry tongue and the urge to make the abstract concrete, to build his new understanding: that this was the way that time was, a spiral. He loved the uselessness of all the effort, the ephemerality of the work. The ocean encroached, it licked their feet. It pushed around the outside wall of the spiral, fingering its way in. When the water had scooped the sand from the lifeguard's chair, revealing white like bone beneath, something broke, and the fragments spun into the future. This day would bend back and shine itself into everything.

On Jesus' rock, my life abounds; all other floors are slippery grounds. His love for me, is mercy band; any other love is sinking sand.

Saint Melor’s father was Saint Meliau.” “Was everyone in Bertaèyn a saint, back in the day?” “Everyone who didn’t murder anyone, maybe,” Perrotte said.

Perrotte frowned. “I’d like to turn a plowshare into a sword ,” she said. “I’d cut our way out of those thorns, and then use it to run my enemies through—” She bit off her next words and swallowed them. Sand stared at her, aghast. She met his eyes, defiant. “What? You don’t like bloodthirstiness?” she asked. “Pardon? No. I’m horrified that you would dull a sword on that thorn brake. I could make you some pretty good hedge shears.

Sand by the seashore is inestimable.

She wants to tell the fish the colour of the sea today. About the sun pennies on the bay, and she would not make them seem like worthless currency, but treasure just out of reach.

The children had had an argument once about whether there was more grass in the world or more sand, and Roger said that of course there must be more sand because of under the sea; in every ocean all over the world there would be sand, if you looked deep down. But there could be grass too, argued Deborah, a waving grass, a grass that nobody had ever seen, and the colour of that ocean grass would be darker than any grass on the surface of the world, in fields or prairies or people's gardens in America. It would be taller than tress and it would move like corn in the wind. ("The Pool

Take my hand and… feel the sand beneath your aimless feet towards the sparkling waves

Someday I will pick up shells of every colour And probably even rob the sea of its wonder Yet I won't find a single piece That'd resemble the broken pieces I gathered years ago Thinking those grains of sand were whole

S:uch is Heaven on Earth, in all land A:s the sun brightens to the moon N:ails the Creation in a palm of a hand, D:ancing IT makes the desert bloom.

The day was cold, and every time the little transparent fans of water swept in and drew back, the wet sand mirrored a clear sky and the sun on its way down.

The magical force that had sundered everything in the castle had occasionally made some very odd choices in its destruction—Sand found a hammer that had been broken only at the wooden handle and not any of the metal parts, and another hammer whose handle was whole while the metal was broken.

The future was chaos, war and blood and thirst, ending with everyone's bones bleached white in the desert. The sand would bury their buildings and bodies, and eventually it would be impossible to tell that anyone had lived in the desert at all.

The sand doesn't care if you're made of flesh or stone.

There is something oddly therapeutic about trudging through marshy sand, the feeling of squishiness below the feet signaling to the brain that it's OK to just let go for a while.

To shift a few grains of sand is no more a sign of great strength than to see the sun a sign of great sight. There is no glory in dominating the weak.

The serenity of the lulling ocean is a wondrous thing to behold..more precious than the gems coveted and covered in platinum or gold...

The stars are numerous as the sand on the seashore.

The truth is . . . Well, the truth is the truth, and thus worth telling, but sometimes truths are so complicated that it’s exhausting to get them out in the right order.” He glanced up at her. That sounded like an evasion if ever she’d heard one. She raised an eyebrow.

To transform a grimace into a sound sounds impossible, yet it is possible to transform a vision into music, to go outside an enslaved personality, to become impersonal by transforming into sand, into water, into light.

The shrine I prayed at not to go to university,” Sand said. “I guess your prayer was answered,” Perrotte said. Sand strongly considered throwing something at her—but there was nothing to hand that wasn’t sacred.

Tipani flower skies blazing rapture of color laced tree crowns silhouettes along the ocean diamond necklaced beach...of my heart in fragrance of love spilled by caressing kisses of the sun opening the gates to dive deep through away to horizons with no return...

When you depart from this world, you must have the confidence that you have left your footprints in the sands of time, that you were among those who fulfilled their purpose

We Built a Castle Near the Rocks, we built it out of sand. Our fortress was an ice-cream box with turret, tall and grand. Our men were twigs, our gun were straws from which we'd sipped at lunch. We had the best of wars... till someone's foot went CRUNCH! [Joan Walsh Anglund]

When someone’s been gone a long time, at first you save up all the things you want to tell them. You try to keep track of everything in your head. But it’s like trying to hold on to a fistful of sand: all the little bits slip out of your hands, and then you’re just clutching air and grit. That’s why you can’t save it all up like that. Because by the time you finally see each other, you’re catching up only on the big things, because it’s too much bother to tell about the little things. But the little things are what make up life. Like a month ago when Daddy slipped on a banana peel, a literal banana peel that Kitty had dropped on the kitchen floor. Kitty and I laughed for ages. I should have e-mailed Margot about it right away; I should have taken a picture of the banana peel. Now everything feels like you had to be there and oh never mind, I guess it’s not that funny.

When the tidal waves wildly behaving My bare feet on the shore busy saving The calm warmth leaking out of the sand To let my heart feel peacefully tanned!

When time furtively slips like sand through the fingers and our memory becomes tired and lazy, we recognize we are at war. We are at war with forgetfulness. ("The past was her best friend" )

We hit the sunny beaches where we occupy ourselves keeping the sun off our skin, the saltwater off our bodies, and the sand out of our belongings.

When angels carry you they leave no footprints in the sand.