I don't see how those people are going to get in and out of there without having to drive on the grass
people drive grass
The grass is dead and dry now, but having some moisture will definitely help.
dead grass
Winter is, for sure, the best time to see the wolves. In summer, they're more likely to be in back in the shade during the day, and the grass is higher.
time day summer winter grass wolves
In 12 years of playing, I've never been on a team that won a playoff game. That was awesome. They were singing the fight song. Cars were lined up in the grass out there. There must have been a thousand people around.
people game song singing awesome fight team cars grass
It's very important for every French player, and I am trying to play every year all the clay-court season. After 1 1/2 months on clay, I am too tired to play on grass. I always have a small or big injury.
french small play tired grass big important injury
Every second he breathed, the smell of the grass, the cool air on his face, was so precious: To think that people had years and years, time to waste, so much time it dragged, and he was clinging to each second.
people time air face waste precious cool smell grass
Some people are born with a vital and responsive energy. It not only enables them to keep abreast of the times; it qualifies them to furnish in their own personality a good bit of the motive power to the mad pace. They are fortunate beings. They do not need to apprehend the significance of things. They do not grow weary nor miss step, nor do they fall out of rank and sink by the wayside to be left contemplating the moving procession. Ah! That moving procession that has left me by the road-side! Its fantastic colors are more brilliant and beautiful than the sun on the undulating waters. What matter if souls and bodies are failing beneath the feet of the ever-pressing multitude! It moves with the majestic rhythm of the spheres. Its discordant clashes sweep upward in one harmonious tone that blends with the music of other worlds--to complete God's orchestra. It is greater than the stars--that moving procession of human energy; greater than the palpitating earth and the things growing thereon. Oh! I could weep at being left by the wayside; left with the grass and the clouds and a few dumb animals. True, I feel at home in the society of these symbols of life's immutability. In the procession I should feel the crushing feet, the clashing discords, the ruthless hands and stifling breath. I could not hear the rhythm of the march. Salve! Ye dumb hearts. Let us be still and wait by the roadside.
symbols adventure people power society home music human personality hearts true earth clouds inspirational-quotes beautiful good growing mad animals breath moving fall awakening feel sun fantastic grow energy times hands bodies reflection weep rhythm things wait matter born colors souls hear motive grass dumb left significance brilliant greater
I am not a machine. For what can a machine know of the smell of wet grass in the morning, or the sound of a crying baby? I am the feeling of the warm sun against my skin; I am the sensation of a cool wave breaking over me. I am the places I have never seen, yet imagine when my eyes are closed. I am the taste of another's breath, the color of her hair. You mock me for the shortness of my lifespan, but it is this very fear of dying that breathes life into me. I am the thinker who thinks of thoughts. I am curiosity, I am reason, I am love, and I am hatred. I am indifference. I am the son of a father, who in turn was a father's son. I am the reason my mother laughed and the reason my mother cried. I am wonder and I am wondrous. Yes, the world may push your buttons as it passes through your circuitry. But the world does not pass through me. It lingers. I am in it and it is is me. I am the means by which the universe has come to know itself. I am the thing no machine can ever make. I am meaning.
places sound life art meaning world fear reason crying color curiosity universe feeling thoughts breath mother morning sun imagine son eyes hatred machine taste cool father hair smell skin grass genesis dying indifference baby love breaking thing wave wet
It had been startling and disappointing to me to find out that story books had been written by people, that books were not natural wonders, coming up of themselves like grass. Yet regardless of where they come from, I cannot remember a time when I was not in love with them -- with the books themselves, cover and binding and the paper they were printed on, with their smell and their weight and with their possession in my arms, captured and carried off to myself. Still illiterate, I was ready for them, committed to all the reading I could give them..
reading wonders inspiration literature writing people time creativity storytelling story remember possession find weight written natural smell grass paper arms love ready books give
I am a product [.. Of] endless books. My father bought all the books he read and never got rid of any of them. There were books in the study, books in the drawing room, books in the cloakroom, books (two deep) in the great bookcase on the landing, books in a bedroom, books piled as high as my shoulder in the cistern attic, books of all kinds reflecting every transient stage of my parents' interest, books readable and unreadable, books suitable for a child and books most emphatically not. Nothing was forbidden me. In the seemingly endless rainy afternoons I took volume after volume from the shelves. I had always the same certainty of finding a book that was new to me as a man who walks into a field has of finding a new blade of grass.
man book deep study drawing child forbidden interest father read certainty grass stage great finding books shelves
The forests were crippled, the wheat fields vanished; in place of the grass there reappeared stone and drifting sand. Men perished and moved on, the cities sank back into the sand, the dust settled over them. Thousands of years later Nordic dreamers dug up the petrified culture from the rubble and ashes. Today, the entire picture of the former paradise stands before our eyes as a spent dream which had once produced life, beauty and strength as long as a superior race ruled. It will live again and it will dream again. But as soon as races of a dreamless kind took over and attempted to realize the dream, reality vanished with the dream.
culture strength race life paradise men beauty live reality kind dream today eyes picture cities place dreamers dust grass sand civilisation realize forests
I wish the night would end,I wish the day'd begin,I wish it would rain or snow, or the wind would blow, or the grass would grow,I wish I had yesterday,I wish there were games to play..
nature death games sadness song-lyrics wind night end play grow siblings rain snow grass begin yesterday
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I loveIf you want me again look for me under your boot-soles. You will hardly know who I am or what I meanBut I shall be good health to you nonethelessAnd filter and fibre your blood.
health nature death universe good look grow blood grass
I want you here. I don't care if it's a hundred degrees and every blade of grass dies. Without you, none of that matters to me.
chaos apocalypse death beautiful care grass
A child said What is the grass? Fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose? Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation. Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones, Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. Tenderly will I use you curling grass, It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men, It may be if I had known them I would have loved them, It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers' laps, And here you are the mothers' laps. This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers, Darker than the colorless beards of old men, Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues, And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing... What do you think has become of the young and old men? And what do you think has become of the women and children? They are alive and well somewhere, The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceas'd the moment life appear'd. All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
women life flag people men death moment children hopeful beautiful gift growing dark mothers end black child hands green forward alive young wait die hair white grass answer red lord give breasts
One grave in every graveyard belongs to the ghouls. Wander any graveyard long enough and you will find it - water stained and bulging, with cracked or broken stone, scraggly grass or rank weeds about it, and a feeling, when you reach it, of abandonment. It may be colder than the other gravestones, too, and the name on the stone is all too often impossible to read. If there is a statue on the grave it will be headless or so scabbed with fungus and lichens as to look like fungus itself. If one grave in a graveyard looks like a target for petty vandals, that is the ghoul-gate. If the grave wants to make you be somewhere else, that is the ghoul-gate.
death feeling water broken grave find read impossible grass abandonment cemetery
The other mammoths were as protective of the dying as they were of newborns, and they gathered around tying to make the fallen one get up. When all was over, they buried the dead ancestor under piles of dirt, grass, leaves, or snow. Mammoths were even known to bury other dead animals, including humans.
death humans animals dead snow grass dying fallen touching ancestor
Would that the dead were not dead! But there is grass that must be eaten, pellets that must be chewed, hraka that must be passed, holes that must be dug, sleep that must be slept.
sleep death dead grass
This was their way of honoring the dead. The story over, the demands of their own hard, rough lives began to re-assert themselves in their hearts, in their nerves, their blood and appetites. Would that the dead were not dead! But there is grass that must be eaten, pellets that must be chewed, hraka that must be passed, holes that must be dug, sleep that must be slept. Odysseus brings not one man to shore with him. Yet he sleeps sound beside Calypso and when he wakes thinks only of Penelope.
sleep sound life man death hearts story lives blood hard dead grass odysseus
Time that withers you will wither me. We will fall like ripe fruit and roll down the grass together. Dear friend, let me lie beside you watching the clouds until the earth covers us and we are gone.
friendship death time earth clouds fall fruit friend lie grass
Over the vistas broke a cold gray light, such as seen in those false dawns that are neither night nor true morning, when the world and all its contents seem but shapes of mist, formed in vain hope and desire.. If you awake from troubled sleep at such a time, you can only sit by the window and think of those that have been lost to you, those that followed your parents into those cold and heartless regions below the grass, silent and dark. Eventually, morning comes and the world resumes its solidity, but another tiny thread of ice has been stitched into your heart forever.
death heart dawn grass ice mist
Stone, steel, dominions pass, Faith too, no wonder; So leave alone the grassThat I am under.
steel faith grass
In the plains the grass grows tall, since there is no one to cut it. There is no one to water it either.
growing development grow limits grass freedom
There was after all no mystery in the end of love, no mystery but the mystery of love itself, which was large certainly but as real as grass, as natural and unaccountable as bloom and branch and their growth.
mystery growth reality bloom grass
Song of myselfA child said What is the grass? Fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose? Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.
poetry life soul grass
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