Quotes on Green

To me, fair friend, you never can be old, _x000D_ _x000D_ For as you were when first your eye I eyed,_x000D_ _x000D_ Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold _x000D_ _x000D_ Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,_x000D_ _x000D_ Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd _x000D_ _x000D_ In process of the seasons have I seen, _x000D_ _x000D_ Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,_x000D_ _x000D_ Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.

If you give me anything less than your best, you're not only cheating yourself. your coaches, your teamates, everybody in Green Bay, and everything pro football stands for. Your also cheating the Maker who gave you the talent.

What a joy it is to feel the soft, springy earth under my feet once more, to follow grassy roads that lead to ferny brooks where I can bathe my fingers in a cataract of rippling notes, or to clamber over a stone wall into green fields that tumble and roll and climb in riotous gladness!

Now Nature hangs her mantle green_x000D_ _x000D_ On every blooming tree,_x000D_ _x000D_ And spreads her sheets o'daisies white_x000D_ _x000D_ Out o'er the grassy lea.

I gazed upon the glorious sky_x000D_ _x000D_ And the green mountains round,_x000D_ _x000D_ And thought that when I came to lie_x000D_ _x000D_ At rest within the ground,_x000D_ _x000D_ 'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June_x000D_ _x000D_ When brooks send up a cheerful tune,_x000D_ _x000D_ And groves a joyous sound,_x000D_ _x000D_ The sexton's hand, my grave to make,_x000D_ _x000D_ The rich, green mountain-turf should break.

Evil springs up, and flowers, and bears no seed, And feeds the green earth with its swift decay, Leaving it richer for the growth of truth.

Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, Time held me green and dying Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

For winter's rains and ruins are over, And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the night that wins; And time remembered isgrief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

Pippin: I didn't think it would end this way._x000D_ Gandalf: End? No, the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path... One that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass... And then you see it._x000D_ Pippin: What? Gandalf?... See what?_x000D_ Gandalf: White shores... and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise._x000D_ Pippin: Well, that isn't so bad._x000D_ Gandalf: No... No it isn't.

Somewhere, on the long road that wound through those four years, the girl with her sachet & dancing slippers had slipped away & there was left a woman with sharp green eyes, who counted pennies & turned her hands to many menial tasks, a woman to whom nothing was left from the wreckage except the indestructible red earth on which she stood.

A blade of grass is a commonplace on Earth; it would be a miracle on Mars. Our descendants on Mars will know the value of a patch of green. And if a blade of grass is priceless, what is the value of a human being?

Squeezing the lives of people is now being proposed as the saviour of the planet. Through the green economy an attempt is being made to technologise, financialise, privatise and commodify all of the earth’s resources and living processes.

The rockets set the bony meadows afire, turned rock to lava, turned wood to charcoal, transmuted water to steam, made sand and silica into green glass which lay like shattered mirrors reflecting the invasion, all about. The rockets came like drums, beating in the night. The rockets came like locusts, swarming and settling in blooms of rosy smoke.

Suppose the looking glass smashes, the image disappears, and the romantic figure with the green of forest depths all about it is there no longer, but only that shell of a person which is seen by other people - what an airless, shallow, bald, prominent world it becomes! A world not to be lived in. As we face each other in omnibuses and underground railways we are looking into the mirror that accounts for the vagueness, the gleam of glassiness, in our eyes.

That stirring which had fluttered in her on first glimpsing the sea—that stirring landlocked children know so well—moved in her now, with the golden stars over head, and the green fireflies glinting on the wooded shore. She carefully unfolded the stirring that she had so tightly packed away. It billowed out like a sail, and she laughed, despite herself, despite hunger and hard things ahead.

You are so busy being YOU that you have no idea how utterly unprecedented you are.

Roads go ever ever on, Over rock and under tree, By caves where never sun has shone, By streams that never find the sea; Over snow by winter sown, And through the merry flowers of June, Over grass and over stone, And under mountains of the moon. Roads go ever ever on Under cloud and under star, Yet feet that wandering have gone Turn at last to home afar. Eyes that fire and sword have seen And horror in the halls of stone Look at last on meadows green And trees and hills they long have known

When Summer lies upon the world, and in a noon of gold, Beneath the roof of sleeping leaves the dreams of trees unfold; When woodland halls are green and cool, and wind is in the West, Come back to me! Come back to me, and say my land is best!

What hands are here? ha! they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.” “My hands are of your colour; but I shame to wear a heart so white. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy it is then! Your constancy hath left you unattended.

Your green eye is a reducing chamber. If I look into it long enough, I wil become as small as my own reflection, I will diminish to a point and vanish. I will be drawn down into that black whirlpool and be consumed by you. I shall become so small you can keep me in one of your osier cages and mock my loss of liberty.

“You 're not eating anything,” said Marilla sharply, eying her as if it were a serious shortcoming. Anne sighed. “I can 't. I'm in the depths of despair. Can you eat when you are in the depths of despair?”