A kind heart is a fountain of gladness, making everything in its vicinity freshen into smiles.
Water is the mother of the vine, the nurse and fountain of fecundity, the adorner and refresher of the world.
That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.
Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it.
Rain is grace; rain is the sky descending to the earth; without rain, there would be no life.
Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.
From the very fountain of enchantment there arises a taste of bitterness to spread anguish amongst the flowers.
If you gave me several million years, there would be nothing that did not grow in beauty if it were surrounded by water.
I have never seen a river that I could not love. Moving water... has a fascinating vitality. It has power and grace and associations. It has a thousand colors and a thousand shapes, yet it follows laws so definite that the tiniest streamlet is an exact replica of a great river.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby.
Water is life's matter and matrix, mother and medium. There is no life without water.
Discontent is like ink poured into water, which fills the whole fountain full of blackness.
It is a fascinating and provocative thought that a body of water deserves to be considered as an organism in its own right.
Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.
To trace the history of a river or a raindrop is also to trace the history of the soul, the history of the mind descending and arising in the body. In both, we constantly seek and stumble upon divinity, which like feeding the lake, and the spring becoming a waterfall, feeds, spills, falls, and feeds itself all over again.
Water is a very good servant, but it is a cruel master.
To trace the history of a river . . . is to trace the history of the soul, the history of the mind descending and arising in the body.
Don't you realize that the sea is the home of water? All water is off on a journey unless it's in the sea, and it's homesick, and bound to make its way home someday.
Parents wonder why the streams are bitter, when they themselves have poisoned the fountain.
The trees reflected in the river - they are unconscious of a spiritual world so near to them. So are we.
Be praised, My Lord, through Sister Water; she is very useful, and humble, and precious, and pure.
Water, thou hast no taste, no color, no odor; canst not be defined, art relished while ever mysterious. Not necessary to life, but rather life itself, thou fillest us with a gratification that exceeds the delight of the senses.
Man — despite his artistic pretensions, his sophistication, and his many accomplishments — owes his existence to a six inch layer of topsoil and the fact that it rains.
Irrigation of the land with seawater desalinated by fusion power is ancient. It's called rain.
I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river Is a strong brown god-sullen, untamed and intractable.
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