Best 299 quotes in «mountains quotes» category

He stood there a moment, listened to the creek, and let the mountain air blow against his face. Even with all this heartache, it was beautiful here.

He stood at the edge of town feeling very small, powerless. Night in the mountains could do that to you, reminding you of your place in the world and laughing at any sense of self-importance.

Heydar Baba, when the thunder resounds across the skies, When floods roar down the mountainsides, And the girls line up to watch it rushing by, Send my greetings to the tribesmen and the village folk And remember me and my name once more.

His voice jerked Lou from her memory. She blinked and the dim bedroom returned. Outside the parted curtains, the inky surface of Bertha Bay lay silent. Above it ran a saw’s blade of mountains. Beneath, Lou knew, but didn’t dare say.

I ascended the mountains to hear the voice of God, and was answered in echoes from afar.

I asked the mountains and valleys about you. And they said that they miss you as much as I miss you!

I ‘am shaggy as rivers, forests and mountains My eyes see the universe natural and super My mind is of many cuts Non-identical I have fought demons Half-horse, half alligator I ‘am victorious, I bled

I couldn’t describe the smells of West Virginia, even if I tried. It has something to do with the leaves composting in the woods, the cold trickle of little creeks and waterfalls, the ferns greening up everything. But somewhere deep below, I can smell the rock and the coal this state is built on.

I do not find myself beguiled, let alone enchanted by mortal man or woman with their pretense, show or adornments, yet when I’m alone in the pine-scented cloak of forested mountains, I’m both. It was nearing sunset in the treasure state with not another soul in sight and despite my own plainness and insignificance, I never felt more grounded or at peace; it’s a tranquility only the curvaceous, imposing landscape of the frontier can provide and I was free of the trepidation within my thoughts as I gratefully and prayerfully walked with God. All was well within me and around me for that blissful yet brief moment in time.

I couldn’t work out how to get home. Someone moved the mountains.

I could simply kill you now, get it over with, who would know the difference? I could easily kick you in, stove you under, for all those times, mean on gin, you rammed words into my belly. (p. 52)

I disse sekunder, som koncentrationen gjør tidløse, oplever jeg hvordan hele min skjæbnes brede væv løper sammen til en eneste tråd i denne passage på en tolv-femten forbitrede fingertak.

I don't like either the word [hike] or the thing. People ought to saunter in the mountains - not 'hike!' Do you know the origin of that word saunter? It's a beautiful word. Away back in the middle ages people used to go on pilgrimages to the Holy Land, and when people in the villages through which they passed asked where they were going they would reply, 'A la sainte terre', 'To the Holy Land.' And so they became known as sainte-terre-ers or saunterers. Now these mountains are our Holy Land, and we ought to saunter through them reverently, not 'hike' through them.

If I was to establish a system, it would be, that Mountains are produced by Volcanoes, and not Volcanoes by Mountains.

I dream that one day I would be a published writer and people would read my books - if not, I would be living in the mountains in a small hut, near a pond where swans swim, writing a diary for myself.

if i told you that i talk to the mountains quite often would you think that i am insane? if i told you that i secretly hug trees would you think that i am an idiot? if i told you that i love fragrances would you think that i am less masculine? if i told you that i dislike talking because i hate my own voice would you think that i lack confidence? if i told you that i cry in movies when an emotional scene unfolds would you think that i am a weak-heart? if i told you that i keep staring at the sky most often would you think that i am crazy?

If the mountain despises the valley, the valley reminds him of the clouds and the Moon!

I force myself to get up and lock my eyes on the painting, my birthday gift. It’s the essence of everything I want to remember about us. I pick it up and imagine the stars shimmering over us and the brisk air on our skin. The way the cold dissipated when we touched and nothing else mattered, how perfect it was.

If you are a kind person and love animals, you may be lucky enough to find the Magic Valley. There you will discover a land where snow leopards play and mountains smile. I should tell you, though, that it will be a very hard journey. But I should also tell you that it is well worth the effort.

If you have the high spirit of the high mountains, even the greatest powers of the outer world will respect and admire you!

If you get the taste of the mountains once, you will always find the cities horribly tasteless!

If you ignore the mountain, doesn't mean mountain will ignore you too..

I grow into these mountains like a moss. I am bewitched. The blinding snow peaks and the clarion air, the sound of earth and heaven in the silence, the requiem birds, the mythic beasts, the flags, great horns, and old carved stones, the silver ice in the black river, the Kang, the Crystal Mountain. Also, I love the common miracles-the murmur of my friends at evening, the clay fires of smudgy juniper, the coarse dull food, the hardship and simplicity, the contentment of doing one thing at a time… gradually my mind has cleared itself, and wind and sun pour through my head, as through a bell. Though we talk little here, I am never lonely; I am returned into myself. In another life-this isn’t what I know, but how I feel- these mountains were my home; there is a rising of forgotten knowledge, like a spring from hidden aquifers under the earth. To glimpse one’s own true nature is a kind of homegoing, to a place East of the Sun, West of the Moon- the homegoing that needs no home, like that waterfall on the supper Suli Gad that turns to mist before touching the earth and rises once again to the sky.

If your mind can move mountains and swallow gods, Why does it worry with helpless yesterdays and unborn tomorrows? If it can vomit stars and walk on split hairs, Why must it follow the same path to despair? Everyone will tell you: 'An orgasm here is just as good.

I have woken up…quite sloshed from night-mingled rains a little drugged, by mountain fogs I have been kidnapped for years....by a mere kiss.

I had this dream about you. We went hunting up in the mountains and I caught a unicorn. You told me now I know how it feels to be you.

…I have never seen mountains before, and they fill me and oppress me so much that I could not sleep; I must keep awake this first night, and see that they don’t fall on the earth and overwhelm it." [- Miss Benson to her brother, Thurstan]

I know I can't own a hilltop, a meadow, or a mountainside. But keeping it a secret somehow makes it mine.

I jumped for it and lit in a snowbank and what I'm goin to tell you you'll think peculiar but it's the god's truth. That was in nineteen and thirty one and if I live to be a hunnerd year old I dont think I'll ever see anything as pretty as that train on fire goin up that mountain and around the bend and them flames lightin up the snow and the trees and the night.

I just love all this,' Walt says. 'The sights, the smells, making the effort and pushing yourself and getting something that's really hard to get. I'll fly on a plane and people will look out the window at thirty thousand feet and say, 'Isn't this view good enough for you?' And I say no, it's not good enough. I didn't earn it. In the mountains, I earn it.

I love to escape to wild places – forests, mountains rivers or the sea. If that’s not possible, I flee into books; vicarious travel is rejuvenating

I like geography best, he said, because your mountains & rivers know the secret. Pay no attention to boundaries.

In his life he too, like all people, had harboured ideas and dreams. Some he had fulfilled for himself; some had been granted to him. Many things had remained out of reach, or barely had he reached them than they were torn from his hands again. But he was still here. And in the mornings after the first snowmelt, when he walked across the dew-soaked meadow outside his hut and lay down on one of the flat rocks scattered there, the cool stone at his back and the first warm rays of sun on his face, he felt that many things had not gone so badly after all.

In his stupor, the forest had begun to change. The sounds were confusing, his eyes blurring in his exhaustion. He tugged another branch out of the way, gasping as a jagged twig poked through the palm of his hand, momentarily catching there. The pain was almost an afterthought, his fingers no longer working effectively.

In lieu of letting go of our trauma and rather than healing completely, in my experience, we learn how to carry it and there are some days when it is heavier than others. Some days, I hardly know it is there, distracted as I am by present joys and excitement; while other days, the burden is cripplingly-heavy and I can hardly breathe under the weight of grief.

in the end it is words poetry. sunsets someone’s deep blue silk voice. mountain scents. someone’s smile. eyes. that we have no defenses against.

In my opinion, mountains don't move. They only look changed when you loook down on them from a great height.

In our best times everything turns into religion, all the world seems a church and the mountains altars.

In the distance, the Himalayan range flared into fluorescence, as its snowy peaks reflected the moonlight back at the velvet sky, split into half by the shimmering strip of the Milky Way.

In the midst of a thousand clouds and countless waters there is an idle person. By day, he roams the green mountains, at night, he returns to sleep beneath the cliff. Quickly, the seasons pass in serenity, with no worldly bonds. How joyful! What does he depend upon? Quiet, like a large autumn river.

I send thee, love, this upland flower I found While wandering lonely with o'erclouded heart, Hid in a grey recess of rocky ground Among the misty mountains far apart; And then I heard the wild wind's luring sound Which whoso trusts, is healed of earthborn care, And watched the lofty ridges loom around, Yet yearned in vain their secret faith to share. When lo! the sudden sunlight, sparkling keen, Poured full upon the vales this glorious day, And bared the abiding mountain-tops serene, And swept the shifting vapour-wreaths away: Then with the hills' true heart my heart beat true, Heavens opened, cloud-thoughts vanished, and I knew.

Is an orphaned child in a conquered land supposed to lift his head and face his life, and the whole world, as if nothing is ailing him? Doomed is he for burying inside that which crumbles mountains. Damned is he for letting his resentment surface."—Where Will My Heart Beat?

I sit down by the river. Its incessant flow has polished the rocks carried from the top of the mountain. The aqueous caress, that has unrolled for millions of years the liquid ribbon from the summits towards the plains, keeps the freshness of the youth. The July sun heats the trees on the shore, while the stream of water refreshes the air; Two breaths which mingle without opposing one another. The foliage softly sways under the summer breeze, tuning its movement to that of the fiery wave. Won by a palpable peace, thank you Mother Nature, I dive into my book. A time later, which seems infinite to me, the sky becomes darker, I raise my head. How many hours have passed during which, indifferent to the human time, the cascading water has descended from the mountain? How much water has passed in front of me? How many beings have quenched their thirst there, and get their lives out from it? How long after my small passage on Earth will have been forgotten, the river will continue to flow, to carry its rocks, to erode the mountain until it becomes a plain, to spread life like a vein of the Earth ?

In the silence of the ticking of the clock’s minute hand, I found you. In the echoes of the reverberations of time, I found you. In the tender silence of the long summer night, I found you. In the fragrance of the rose petals, I found you. In the orange of the sunset, I found you. In the blue of the morning sky, I found you. In the echoes of the mountains, I found you. In the green of the valleys, I found you. In the chaos of this world, I found you. In the turbulence of the oceans, I found you. In the shrill cries of the grasshopper at night, I found you. In the gossamer sublimity of the silken cobweb, I found you.

I sit in meditation…and soon all sounds, and all one sees and feels, take on imminence, an immanence, as if the Universe were coming to attention, a Universe of which one is the center, a Universe that is not the same yet not different from oneself: within man as within mountains there are many parts of hydrogen and oxygen, of calcium, phosphorus, potassium, and other elements. ‘You never enjoy the world aright, till the Sea itself flows in your veins, till you are clothed with the heavens, and crowned with the stars…’(Thomas Traherne, Centuries of Meditation) The secret of the mountains is that the mountains simply exist, as I do myself: the mountains exist simply, which I do not. The mountains have no ‘meaning,’ they are meaning; the mountains are. The sun is round. I ring with life, and the mountains ring, and when I can hear it, there is a ringing that we share.

I strive to climb mountains, forge streams and oceans to find the unwelcome silence that mocks my existence; I must aim higher... ~VA

It's impossible to fall of mountains you fool!

It disturbed me that people would come to the mountains and regard the place as if it was somehow unreal, as if no action of theirs could have an affect on the landscape.

It is always harder to climb the mountain. One must find strength of hope within the depths of heart to move onward.

It is true that every mountain has four faces, and one tends to know but one. ― Carlos Fuentes, Terra Nostra