There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
One cannot collect all the beautiful shells on the beach. One can collect only a few, and they are more beautiful if they are few.
Ya'll hear about the geometer who went to the beach to catch some
~Excitement.~--There is always something interesting and beautiful about a universal popular excitement of a generous character, let the object of it be what it may. The great desiring heart of man, surging with one strong, sympathetic swell, even though it be to break on the beach of life and fall backwards, leaving the sands as barren as before, has yet a meaning and a power in its restlessness with which I must deeply sympathize.--_Mrs. Stowe._
That which seems to be wealth may in verity be only the gilded index of far-reaching ruin; a wrecker's handful of coin gleaned from the beach to which he has beguiled an argosy.
You know how slight a line will tow a boat when afloat on the billows, though a cable would hardly move her when pulled up on the beach.
"Catch a wave and you're sitting on top of the world."
My day is done, and I am like a boat drawn on the beach, listening to the dance-music of the tide in the evening.
The tired ocean crawls along the beach sobbing a wordless sorrow to the moon.
Using TSO is like kicking a dead whale down the beach.
In the midst of this sublime and terrible storm , Dame Partington, who lived upon the beach, was seen at the door of her house with mop and pattens, trundling her mop, squeezing out the sea-water, and vigorously pushing away the Atlantic Ocean. The Atlantic was roused; Mrs. Partington's spirit was up. But I need not tell you that the contest was unequal; the Atlantic Ocean beat Mrs. Partington.
Half way down Hangs one that gathers samphire, dreadful trade! Methinks he seems no bigger than his head: The fishermen that walk upon the beach Appear like mice.
I was in this prematurely air conditioned supermarket and there were all these aisles and there were these bathing caps you could buy that had these kind of Fourth of July plumes on them that were red and yellow and blue and I wasn't tempted to buy one but I was reminded of the fact that I had been avoiding the beach. -- Lucinda Childs "Einstein On The Beach"
You never know how many friends you have until you rent a house on the beach.
"Catch a wave and you're sitting on top of the world." -- The Beach Boys
Love the sea? I dote upon it -- from the beach.
Oh, I get it!! "The BEACH goes on", huh, SONNY??
Q: Why don't lawyers go to the beach? A: The cats keep trying to bury them.
So Richard and I decided to try to catch [the small shark]. With a great deal of strategy and effort and shouting, we managed to maneuver the shark, over the course of about a half-hour, to a sort of corner of the lagoon, so that it had no way to escape other than to flop up onto the land and evolve. Richard and I were inching toward it, sort of crouched over, when all of a sudden it turned around and -- I can still remember the sensation I felt at that moment, primarily in the armpit area -- headed right straight toward us. Many people would have panicked at this point. But Richard and I were not "many people." We were experienced waders, and we kept our heads. We did exactly what the textbook says you should do when you're unarmed and a shark that is nearly two feet long turns on you in water up to your lower calves: We sprinted I would say 600 yards in the opposite direction, using a sprinting style such that the bottoms of our feet never once went below the surface of the water. We ran all the way to the far shore, and if we had been in a Warner Brothers cartoon we would have run right INTO the beach, and you would have seen these two mounds of sand racing across the island until they bonked into trees and coconuts fell onto their heads. -- Dave Barry, "The Wonders of Sharks on TV"
Catch a wave and you're sitting on top of the world. -- The Beach Boys
Ya'll hear about the geometer who went to the beach to catch some rays and became a tangent ?
The Marines: The few, the proud, the dead on the beach.
Do you feel personally responsible for the world food shortage? Every time you go to the beach, does the tide come in? Have you ever eaten an entire moose? Can you see your neck? Do joggers take laps around you for exercise? If so, welcome to National Fat Week. This week we'll eat without guilt, and kick off our membership campaign, ...by force-feeding a box of cornstarch to a skinny person. -- Garfield
In the east there is a shark which is larger than all other fish. It changes into a bird whose winds are like clouds filling the sky. When this bird moves across the land, it brings a message from Corporate Headquarters. This message it drops into the midst of the programmers, like a seagull making its mark upon the beach. Then the bird mounts on the wind and, with the blue sky at its back, returns home. The novice programmer stares in wonder at the bird, for he understands it not. The average programmer dreads the coming of the bird, for he fears its message. The master programmer continues to work at his terminal, for he does not know that the bird has come and gone. -- Geoffrey James, "The Tao of Programming"
A young husband with an inferiority complex insisted he was just a little pebble on the beach. The marriage counselor told him, "If you wish to save your marriage, you'd better be a little boulder."
Using TSO is like kicking a dead whale down the beach. -- S. C. Johnson
A mathematician, a doctor, and an engineer are walking on the beach and observe a team of lifeguards pumping the stomach of a drowned woman. As they watch, water, sand, snails and such come out of the pump. The doctor watches for a while and says: "Keep pumping, men, you may yet save her!!" The mathematician does some calculations and says: "According to my understanding of the size of that pump, you have already pumped more water from her body than could be contained in a cylinder 4 feet in diameter and 6 feet high." The engineer says: "I think she's sitting in a puddle."
Bing's Rule: Don't try to stem the tide -- move the beach.
ON THE FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF D-Day, I was broadcasting from the American cemetery overlooking Omaha Beach at Colleville-sur-Mer in Normandy, one of the bloodiest battlefields in American history. The cemetery is at once haunting and beautiful, with 9,386 white marble headstones in long, even lines across the manicured fields of dark green, each headstone marking the death of a brave young American. The anniversary was a somber and celebratory
The night passed away, and the sun rose from the ocean; my feelings became calmer, if it may be called calmness when the violence of rage sinks into the depths of despair. I left the house, the horrid scene of the last night's contention, and walked on the beach of the sea, which I almost regarded as an insuperable barrier between me and my fellow creatures; nay, a wish that such should prove the fact stole across me.
Now when Neleian Nestor to his tent Had brought Machaon, they alighted both, And the old hero's friend Eurymedon Released the coursers. On the beach awhile Their tunics sweat-imbued in the cool air They ventilated, facing full the breeze, Then on soft couches in the tent reposed. Meantime, their beverage Hecamede mix'd, The old King's bright-hair'd captive, whom he brought From Tenedos, what time Achilles sack'd The city, daughter of the noble Chief Arsinoüs, and selected from the rest For Nestor, as the honorable meed Of counsels always eminently wise. She, first, before them placed a table bright, With feet coerulean; thirst-provoking sauce She brought them also in a brazen tray, Garlic and honey new, and sacred meal. Beside them, next, she placed a noble cup Of labor exquisite, which from his home The ancient King had brought with golden studs Embellish'd; it presented to the grasp Four ears; two golden turtles, perch'd on each, Seem'd feeding, and two turtles form'd the base. That cup once fill'd, all others must have toil'd To move it from the board, but it was light In Nestor's hand; he lifted it with ease. The graceful virgin in that cup a draught Mix'd for them, Pramnian wine and savory cheese Of goat's milk, grated with a brazen rasp, Then sprinkled all with meal. The draught prepared, She gave it to their hand; they, drinking, slaked Their fiery thirst, and with each other sat Conversing friendly, when the godlike youth By brave Achilles sent, stood at the door.
Sun-swept beaches with a light wind blowing From the immense blue circle of the sea, And the soft thunder where long waves whiten — These were the same for Sappho as for me. Two thousand years — much has gone by forever, Change takes the gods and ships and speech of men — But here on the beaches that time passes over The heart aches now as then.
But while we sought my galley on the beach With tepid tears bedewing, as we went, Our cheeks, meantime the Goddess to the shore Descending, bound within the bark a ram And sable ewe, passing us unperceived. For who hath eyes that can discern a God Going or coming, if he shun the view?
To whom the master swine-herd in reply. Stranger! since thou art curious to be told My story, silent listen, and thy wine At leisure quaff. The nights are longest now, And such as time for sleep afford, and time For pleasant conf'rence; neither were it good That thou should'st to thy couch before thy hour, Since even sleep is hurtful, in excess. Whoever here is weary, and desires Early repose, let him depart to rest, And, at the peep of day, when he hath fed Sufficiently, drive forth my master's herd; But we with wine and a well-furnish'd board Supplied, will solace mutually derive From recollection of our sufferings past; For who hath much endured, and wander'd far, Finds the recital ev'n of sorrow sweet. Now hear thy question satisfied; attend! There is an island (thou hast heard, perchance, Of such an isle) named Syria; it is placed Above Ortigia, and a dial owns True to the tropic changes of the year. No great extent she boasts, yet is she rich In cattle and in flocks, in wheat and wine. No famine knows that people, or disease Noisome, of all that elsewhere seize the race Of miserable man; but when old age Steals on the citizens, Apollo, arm'd With silver bow and bright Diana come, Whose gentle shafts dismiss them soon to rest. Two cities share between them all the isle, And both were subject to my father's sway Ctesius Ormenides, a godlike Chief. It chanced that from Phœnicia, famed for skill In arts marine, a vessel thither came By sharpers mann'd, and laden deep with toys. Now, in my father's family abode A fair Phœnician, tall, full-sized, and skill'd In works of elegance, whom they beguiled. While she wash'd linen on the beach, beside The ship, a certain mariner of those Seduced her; for all women, ev'n the wise And sober, feeble prove by love assail'd. Who was she, he enquired, and whence? nor she Scrupled to tell at once her father's home.
The son confirmed his father's account, but when Daniel Nugent was called he swore positively that just before the fall of his companion, he saw a boat, with a single man in it, at a short distance from the shore; and as far as he could judge by the light of a few stars, it was the same boat in which I had just landed. A woman deposed that she lived near the beach and was standing at the door of her cottage, waiting for the return of the fishermen, about an hour before she heard of the discovery of the body, when she saw a boat with only one man in it push off from that part of the shore where the corpse was afterwards found.
The sea does not reward those who are too anxious, too greedy, or too impatient... Patience, patience, patience, is what the sea teaches. Patience and faith. One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach — waiting for a gift from the sea.
Let not the modern paintings of this scene mislead us; for though the creature encountered by that valiant whaleman of old is vaguely represented of a griffin-like shape, and though the battle is depicted on land and the saint on horseback, yet considering the great ignorance of those times, when the true form of the whale was unknown to artists; and considering that as in Perseus' case, St. George's whale might have crawled up out of the sea on the beach; and considering that the animal ridden by St. George might have been only a large seal, or sea-horse; bearing all this in mind, it will not appear altogether incompatible with the sacred legend and the ancientest draughts of the scene, to hold this so-called dragon no other than the great Leviathan himself. In fact, placed before the strict and piercing truth, this whole story will fare like that fish, flesh, and fowl idol of the Philistines, Dagon by name; who being planted before the ark of Israel, his horse's head and both the palms of his hands fell off from him, and only the stump or fishy part of him remained. Thus, then, one of our own noble stamp, even a whaleman, is the tutelary guardian of England; and by good rights, we harpooneers of Nantucket should be enrolled in the most noble order of St. George. And therefore, let not the knights of that honourable company (none of whom, I venture to say, have ever had to do with a whale like their great patron), let them never eye a Nantucketer with disdain, since even in our woollen frocks and tarred trowsers we are much better entitled to St. George's decoration than they.
And now, borne seaward from the river-stream Of the Oceanus, we plow'd again The spacious Deep, and reach'd th' Ææan isle, Where, daughter of the dawn, Aurora takes Her choral sports, and whence the sun ascends. We, there arriving, thrust our bark aground On the smooth beach, then landed, and on shore Reposed, expectant of the sacred dawn. But soon as day-spring's daughter rosy-palm'd Look'd forth again, sending my friends before, I bade them bring Elpenor's body down From the abode of Circe to the beach. Then, on the utmost headland of the coast We timber fell'd, and, sorrowing o'er the dead, His fun'ral rites water'd with tears profuse. The dead consumed, and with the dead his arms, We heap'd his tomb, and the sepulchral post Erecting, fix'd his shapely oar aloft.
Independence, like honour, is a rocky island without a beach.
They had left the Ile Ratonneau, where the lighthouse stood, on the right, and were now opposite the Point des Catalans. It seemed to the prisoner that he could distinguish a feminine form on the beach, for it was there Mercedes dwelt. How was it that a presentiment did not warn Mercedes that her lover was within three hundred yards of her?
When Mr. Lorry had finished his breakfast, he went out for a stroll on the beach. The little narrow, crooked town of Dover hid itself away from the beach, and ran its head into the chalk cliffs, like a marine ostrich. The beach was a desert of heaps of sea and stones tumbling wildly about, and the sea did what it liked, and what it liked was destruction. It thundered at the town, and thundered at the cliffs, and brought the coast down, madly. The air among the houses was of so strong a piscatory flavour that one might have supposed sick fish went up to be dipped in it, as sick people went down to be dipped in the sea. A little fishing was done in the port, and a quantity of strolling about by night, and looking seaward: particularly at those times when the tide made, and was near flood. Small tradesmen, who did no business whatever, sometimes unaccountably realised large fortunes, and it was remarkable that nobody in the neighbourhood could endure a lamplighter.
It’s interesting how fuming, or anger in general, is such a physical process, like a wave washing up on a beach and then receding.
Ye sister Nereids, hear! that ye may all From my own lips my boundless sorrow learn. Ah me forlorn! ah me, parent in vain Of an illustrious birth! who, having borne A noble son magnanimous, the chief Of heroes, saw him like a thriving plant Shoot vigorous under my maternal care, And sent him early in his gallant fleet Embark'd, to combat with the sons of Troy. But him from fight return'd I shall receive Beneath the roof of Peleus, never more; And while he lives, and on the sun his eyes Opens, he mourns, nor, going, can I aught Assist him; yet I go, that I may see My darling son, and from his lips be taught What grief hath now befallen him, who close Abiding in his tent shares not the war. So saying she left the cave, whom all her nymphs Attended weeping, and where'er they pass'd The breaking billows open'd wide a way. At fruitful Troy arrived, in order fair They climb'd the beach, where by his numerous barks Encompass'd, swift Achilles sighing lay. Then, drawing nigh to her afflicted son, The Goddess-mother press'd between her palms His temples, and in accents wing'd inquired.
So saying, she went; but him she left enraged For fair Brisëis' sake, forced from his arms By stress of power. Meantime Ulysses came To Chrysa with the Hecatomb in charge. Arrived within the haven deep, their sails Furling, they stowed them in the bark below. Then by its tackle lowering swift the mast Into its crutch, they briskly push'd to land, Heaved anchors out, and moor'd the vessel fast. Forth came the mariners, and trod the beach; Forth came the victims of Apollo next, And, last, Chrysëis. Her Ulysses led Toward the altar, gave her to the arms Of her own father, and him thus address'd.
The games all closed, the people went dispersed Each to his ship; they, mindful of repast, And to enjoy repose; but other thoughts Achilles' mind employ'd: he still deplored With tears his loved Patroclus, nor the force Felt of all-conquering sleep, but turn'd and turn'd Restless from side to side, mourning the loss Of such a friend, so manly, and so brave. Their fellowship in toil; their hardships oft Sustain'd in fight laborious, or o'ercome With difficulty on the perilous deep-- Remembrance busily retracing themes Like these, drew down his cheeks continual tears. Now on his side he lay, now lay supine, Now prone, then starting from his couch he roam'd Forlorn the beach, nor did the rising morn On seas and shores escape his watchful eye, But joining to his chariot his swift steeds, He fasten'd Hector to be dragg'd behind. Around the tomb of Menoetiades Him thrice he dragg'd; then rested in his tent, Leaving him at his length stretch'd in the dust. Meantime Apollo with compassion touch'd Even of the lifeless Hector, from all taint Saved him, and with the golden ægis broad Covering, preserved him, although dragg'd, untorn.
By this, the Trojan and the Tuscan horse, Drawn up in squadrons, with united force, Approach the walls: the sprightly coursers bound, Press forward on their bits, and shift their ground. Shields, arms, and spears flash horribly from far; And the fields glitter with a waving war. Oppos'd to these, come on with furious force Messapus, Coras, and the Latian horse; These in the body plac'd, on either hand Sustain'd and clos'd by fair Camilla's band. Advancing in a line, they couch their spears; And less and less the middle space appears. Thick smoke obscures the field; and scarce are seen The neighing coursers, and the shouting men. In distance of their darts they stop their course; Then man to man they rush, and horse to horse. The face of heav'n their flying jav'lins hide, And deaths unseen are dealt on either side. Tyrrhenus, and Aconteus, void of fear, By mettled coursers borne in full career, Meet first oppos'd; and, with a mighty shock, Their horses' heads against each other knock. Far from his steed is fierce Aconteus cast, As with an engine's force, or lightning's blast: He rolls along in blood, and breathes his last. The Latin squadrons take a sudden fright, And sling their shields behind, to save their backs in flight Spurring at speed to their own walls they drew; Close in the rear the Tuscan troops pursue, And urge their flight: Asylas leads the chase; Till, seiz'd, with shame, they wheel about and face, Receive their foes, and raise a threat'ning cry. The Tuscans take their turn to fear and fly. So swelling surges, with a thund'ring roar, Driv'n on each other's backs, insult the shore, Bound o'er the rocks, incroach upon the land, And far upon the beach eject the sand; Then backward, with a swing, they take their way, Repuls'd from upper ground, and seek their mother sea; With equal hurry quit th' invaded shore, And swallow back the sand and stones they spew'd before.
So Chryses prayed, whom Phoebus heard well-pleased; Then prayed the Grecians also, and with meal Sprinkling the victims, their retracted necks First pierced, then flay'd them; the disjointed thighs They, next, invested with the double caul, Which with crude slices thin they overspread. The priest burned incense, and libation poured Large on the hissing brands, while, him beside, Busy with spit and prong, stood many a youth Trained to the task. The thighs with fire consumed, They gave to each his portion of the maw, Then slashed the remnant, pierced it with the spits, And managing with culinary skill The roast, withdrew it from the spits again. Their whole task thus accomplish'd, and the board Set forth, they feasted, and were all sufficed. When neither hunger more nor thirst remained Unsatisfied, boys crown'd the beakers high With wine delicious, and from right to left Distributing the cups, served every guest. Thenceforth the youths of the Achaian race To song propitiatory gave the day, Pæans to Phoebus, Archer of the skies, Chaunting melodious. Pleased, Apollo heard. But, when, the sun descending, darkness fell, They on the beach beside their hawsers slept; And, when the day-spring's daughter rosy-palm'd Aurora look'd abroad, then back they steer'd To the vast camp. Fair wind, and blowing fresh, Apollo sent them; quick they rear'd the mast, Then spread the unsullied canvas to the gale, And the wind filled it. Roared the sable flood Around the bark, that ever as she went Dash'd wide the brine, and scudded swift away. Thus reaching soon the spacious camp of Greece, Their galley they updrew sheer o'er the sands From the rude surge remote, then propp'd her sides With scantlings long, and sought their several tents.
It sometimes happens, that on certain shores of Bretagne or Scotland a man, either a traveller or a fisherman, while walking at low tide on the beach far from shore, suddenly notices that for several minutes past, he has been walking with some difficulty. The beach under foot is like pitch; his soles stick fast to it; it is no longer sand, it is bird-lime. The strand is perfectly dry, but at every step that he takes, as soon as the foot is raised, the print is filled with water. The eye, however, has perceived no change; the immense beach is smooth and tranquil, all the sand has the same aspect, nothing distinguishes the soil that is solid from that which is not solid; the joyous little cloud of sand-lice continues to leap tumultuously under the feet of the passer-by.
A great pity, now, that this unfortunate whale should be hare-lipped. The fissure is about a foot across. Probably the mother during an important interval was sailing down the Peruvian coast, when earthquakes caused the beach to gape. Over this lip, as over a slippery threshold, we now slide into the mouth. Upon my word were I at Mackinaw, I should take this to be the inside of an Indian wigwam. Good Lord! is this the road that Jonah went? The roof is about twelve feet high, and runs to a pretty sharp angle, as if there were a regular ridge-pole there; while these ribbed, arched, hairy sides, present us with those wondrous, half vertical, scimetar-shaped slats of whalebone, say three hundred on a side, which depending from the upper part of the head or crown bone, form those Venetian blinds which have elsewhere been cursorily mentioned. The edges of these bones are fringed with hairy fibres, through which the Right Whale strains the water, and in whose intricacies he retains the small fish, when openmouthed he goes through the seas of brit in feeding time. In the central blinds of bone, as they stand in their natural order, there are certain curious marks, curves, hollows, and ridges, whereby some whalemen calculate the creature's age, as the age of an oak by its circular rings. Though the certainty of this criterion is far from demonstrable, yet it has the savor of analogical probability. At any rate, if we yield to it, we must grant a far greater age to the Right Whale than at first glance will seem reasonable.