No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.
Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there some day.
A. A. Milne
“Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts.” ~ Rachel Carson
“A river seems a magic thing. A magic, moving, living part of the very earth itself.”
And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.
Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts.
Beautiful rocks – beautiful grass Beautiful soil where they both combine Beautiful river – covering sky Never thought of possession, but all this was mine.
It’s so graceful to be blown by the wind, to go where the wind takes you. Just drifting over beautiful rivers in a balloon is perfect.
Until man duplicates a blade of grass, nature can laugh at his so called scientific knowledge.
Thomas A. Edison
The Yellowstone river is a beautiful river to navigate.
William Henry Ashley
In NY sensuality completely turns into sexuality – no objects for the senses to respond to, no beautiful river, houses, people. Awful smells of the street, and dirt… Nothing except eating, if that, and the frenzy of the bed.
The affluent society has built well in terms of economic progress, but has neglected the protection of the very water we drink as well as the values of fish and wildlife, scenic, and outdoor recreation resources.
Although often measureless in commercial terms, these values must be preserved by a program that will guarantee America some semblance of her great heritage of beautiful rivers.
… the sciences are like a beautiful river, of which the course is easy to follow, when it has acquired a certain regularity; but if one wants to go back to the source, one will find it nowhere, because it is everywhere; it is spread so much [as to be] over all the surface of the earth; it is the same if one wants to go back to the origin of the sciences, one will find only obscurity, vague ideas, vicious circles; and one loses oneself in the primitive ideas.
This song of mine Is a song of the vine To be sung by the glowing embers Of wayside inns, When the rain begins To darken the drear Novembers and For the richest and best Is the wind of the West That grows by the Beautiful River; Whose sweet perfume Fills all the room With a bension on the giver. and When you ask one friend to dine, Give hime your best wine! When you ask two,The second best will do.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow