Best 2874 quotes in «sea quotes» category

There was no water for miles on end here, not even a small lake, and he was starting to feel like a man trapped in a prison.

[...] there was only the sound of the sea.

The romantic boy told her that her mother was like the oyster of the sea. Not because she carried the most beautiful shell, but because her daughter was a pearl.

The sea, he thought, had treasured it's memories deeper than the faithless land.

The sea is a lonely and hostile place, Captain,' Jansen said coldly. 'It is always best not to make enemies of those who might be your friends. You never know when your ships may cross

The Sea is everything. It covers seven tenths of the globe . . . The sea is only a receptacle for all the prodigious, super-natural things that exist inside it. It is only movement and love; it is the living infinite.

The sea is intriguing and exciting. It always reinforces in me a sense of belonging. The waves bring with them a strange kind of peace and calm. The sea has been a silent spectator to many major incidents in my life. The many outings with friends and family; the long walks on the shore with dad, my hero and philosopher; the moments spent with my love, the memories are endless.

The sea is in your eyes. Your face is an eternal summer. Whoever told you otherwise is a fool!

The sea is old and getting older/ but without noticeably ageing - /water is always now

The sea loves to visit the shores; we love to visit the sea! We want things we don't have! Men want eagle wings; eagles want human feet!

The sea does not belong to tyrants." - Captain Nemo

The sea is a body in a thousand ways that don't add up, because adding is too stable a transaction for that flux, but the waves come in in a roar and then ebb, almost silent but for the fain suck of sand and snap of bubbles, over and over, a heartbeat rhythm, the sea always this body turned inside out and opened to the sky, the body always a sea folded in on itself, a nautical chart folded into a paper cup.

The sea is very beautiful and gives us many things, but it must be understood and respected, or it will slap you ...

The sea, like a crinkled chart, spread to the horizon, and lapped the sharp outline of the coast, while the houses were white shells in a rounded grotto, pricked here and there by a great orange sun.

The sea is a body in a thousand ways that don't add up, because adding is too stable a transaction for that flux, but the waves come in in a roar and then ebb, almost silent but for the faint suck of sand and snap of bubbles, over and over, a heartbeat rhythm, the sea always this body turned inside out and opened to the sky, the body always a sea folded in on itself, a nautical chart folded into a paper cup.

The sea loved the moon When she was supposed to love the shore. The moon knew And hence made his intentions known. That she should love the shore Who was destined for her. Yet his protests seemed weak. And even when he pushed her towards the shore- She always retreated back. To want, to need, to love the moon For all she's worth. Everyone said, it wasn't meant to happen. Yet, the Tsunami rose that night for their union.

The sea may catch fire, the planets may collide in space, the sun may quench off its heat, but what we understand is that our peace is like a river in our souls; it's surface may wave about in turbulence, but it's bottom is cool and gently calm!

The sea is a desert of waves, A wilderness of water.

The sea refreshes our imagination because it does not make us think of human life; yet it rejoices the soul, because, like the soul, it is an infinite and impotent striving, a strength that is ceaselessly broken by falls, an eternal and exquisite lament. The sea thus enchants us like music, which, unlike language, never bears the traces of things, never tells us anything about human beings, but imitates the stirrings of the soul. Sweeping up with the waves of those movements, plunging back with them, the heart thus forgets its own failures and finds solace in an intimate harmony between its own sadness and the sea’s sadness, which merges the sea’s destiny with the destinies of all things.

The sea, the sea, yes,' James went on. 'Did you know that Plato was descended from Poseidon on his father's side? Do you have porpoises, seals?' 'There are seals, I'm told. I haven't seen any.

The sea was like another member of the household, a recalcitrant child at times, a soothing aunt at others. She crooned them awake; she crooned them to sleep. Everywhere, there was the smell of salt.

The sea: you watch it for a while, lose interest, and then, because there is nothing else to look at, go back to watching it. It fills you with great thoughts which, leading nowhere and having nothing to focus on except the unfocused mass of the sea, dissolve into a vacancy which in turn, for want of any other defining characteristic, you feel content to term 'awe'.

The sea, the sea… Man alone, Passive, unaware In his elemental sadness.

The sea, to be happy, like hearts, must be stirred.

The sea reminds me of my finiteness, limitations, minuteness and powerlessness, because the sea is none of these.

The sea was surging among the pilings like the blithe mindless forces of dissolution.

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 sky a net, its mesh clogged with glowing stars.

The smartest fish are still in the sea.

The smell of roasting meat rose from the street stalls in a sizzle and a fiddle player begged for coin as he rasped a haunting melody. Life could not be more perfect.

The solitude of the sea intensifies the thoughts and the facts of one's experience which seems to lie at the very centre of the world, as the ship which carries one always remains the centre figure of the round horizon.

The sound of trumpets rang out, signaling the arrival of the first course. A parade of glittering slaves trotted forward, some carrying decorations of the sea, statues made of shells, ribbons of blue and silver, or wearing costumes turning them into fish or mermaids. These slaves wandered among the diners as they ate, entertaining them with music or dances reminiscent of the sea. In the midst of these spectacles were the slaves carrying the food on massive trays covered in snow from the mountains, topped with stuffed mussels, lobster mince wrapped in grape leaves, and sea urchins boiled, honeyed, and served open in their own spiny husks.

The spring is not so beautiful there– But dream ships sail away To where the spring is wondrous rare And life is gay. The spring is not so beautiful there– But lads put out to sea Who carry beauties in their hearts And dreams, like me.

The Sun, the Stars, the Seas with all other things were made by the Divine Being, God.

The sun is touching every door and making wonder of the wheat. The first wine is pink in colour, is sweet with the sweetness of a child, the second wine is able-bodied, strong like the voice of a sailor, the third wine is a topaz, is a poppy and a fire in one. My house has both the sea and the earth, my woman has great eyes the colour of wild hazelnut, when night comes down, the sea puts on a dress of white and green...

The tide was coming in at Cosmo Bay and the sky bubbled with a vivid orange before smoothing out to a fading lilac over the calm sea. The late-surfers were heading back to shore, laughing and shivering slightly at the chilly breeze. A few stragglers walked, hunch-shouldered, along the rocky beach with a dog or two, or simply alone. They looked to be personal victims of the sky-god's wrath. Imprisoned by the aquatic borders oppressing them and containing them. Limiting their freedoms and joys the same way the ocean limits the sky itself. In a small coastal town like Caprice, the times only grew more depressing during the late autumn months. The locals died and shrivelled with the leaves and trees as their plastic smiles faded with the last few holidaymakers.

The thing about love is that you will never run out of it. It's an ever-flowing river. So go ahead and LOVE. What are you saving all this love for — death?

‪The Timingila: A Strange Fish‬ This is the story of an ancient sea, And the monster, who made everyone flee. Timingila was a strange fish, Being free was his only wish.

The toxicity of medical and industrial gas to the human depends on where it is used. A gas that is regarded as safe in a well ventilated environment at sea level may be a toxic gas in an indoor environment at high altitude.

The two lovers stood, hand in hand and close enough to feel their breath, overlooking, the calmness and harshness of the sea, a tenderness to its ferocity.

The waves came up towards us, fumbling and gnawing at the beach like an immense soft mouth.

The very high altitude Mauna Kea Observatories (MKO) are unsafe for sea level adapted humans to work in. They always have been hazardous to health and always will be.

The water is a dark flower and a fisherman is a bee in the heart of her.

The warmly cool, clear, ringing, perfumed, overflowing, redundant days, were as crystal goblets of Persian sherbet, heaped up—flaked up, with rose-water snow.

The verge between sea and land marked the manifestation of the symbolic transition between the known and the unknown. Between life and death, spirit and mind, between an unlimited host of elements and forces contrary yet locked together. Lives were given to the seas, treasures were flung into their depths. And, upon the waters themselves, ships and their crews were dragged into the deep time and again.

The waves thundered still onto the beach the next morning and Davy spent a good hour watching them pound the sand. It was therapeutic. He didn't know which he identified with more - the surf, raging against immovable stone outcroppings, or the rocks, taking enormous punishment without being able to strike back

The winds, the sea, and the moving tides are what they are. If there is wonder and beauty and majesty in them, science will discover these qualities... If there is poetry in my book about the sea, it is not because I deliberately put it there, but because no one could write truthfully about the sea and leave out the poetry.

They picked up shells and sea glass, pebbles smooth and white. The wind blew and the surf hissed warm over their toes, sucked the sand from under their soles. The rhythm, the pulse of the sea soothed and electrified.

The world is a wide place where we stumble like children learning to walk. The world is a bright mosaic where we learn like children to see, where our little blurry eyes strive greedily to take in as much light and love and colour and detail as they can. The world is a coaxing whisper when the wind lips the trees, when the sea licks the shore, when animals burrow into earth and people look up at the sympathetic stars. The world is an admonishing roar when gales chase rainclouds over the plains and whip up ocean waves, when people crowd into cities or intrude into dazzling jungles. What right have we to carry our desperate mouths up mountains or into deserts? Do we want to taste rock and sand or do we expect to make impossible poems from space and silence? The vastness at least reminds us how tiny we are, and how much we don't yet understand. We are mere babes in the universe, all brothers and sisters in the nursery together. We had better learn to play nicely before we're allowed out..... And we want to go out, don't we? ..... Into the distant humming welcoming darkness.

They loved the sea. They taught themselves to sail, to navigate and read the weather. Without their mother's knowledge and long before she thought them old enough to sail outside the harbor, they were piloting their catboat all the way to the Isles of Shoals. They were on the return leg of one such excursion when the fickle weather of early spring took an abrupt turn and the sky darkened and the sun vanished and the wind came squalling off the open sea. They were a half mile from the harbor when the storm overtook them. The rain struck in a slashing torrent and the swells hove them so high they felt they might be sent flying--then dropped them into troughs so deep they could see nothing but walls of water the color of iron. They feared the sail would be ripped away. Samuel Thomas wrestled the tiller and John Roger bailed in a frenzy and both were wide-eyed with euphoric terror as time and again they were nearly capsized before at last making the harbor. When they got home and Mary Margaret saw their sodden state she scolded them for dunces and wondered aloud how they could do so well in their schooling when they didn't have sense enough to get out of the rain.