Swan Float Quotes

Nobody really metamorphoses. Cinderella is always Cinderella, just in a nicer dress. The Ugly Duckling was always a swan, just a smaller version. And I bet the tadpole and the caterpillar still feel the same, even when they're jumping and flying, swimming and floating. Just like I am now.

She saw, yet again, that her friend's compliments were just bits of art and artifice. They were paper swans, cunningly folded so that they could float on the air for a few moments. Nothing more.

Over your body the clouds go High, high and icily And a little flat, as if they Floated on a glass that was invisible. Unlike swans, Having no reflections; Unlike you, With no strings attached. All cool, all blue. Unlike you You, there on your back, Eyes to the sky.

As graceful as a floating swan, but as deadly as a silver bullet.

We stood for a moment, the brackish canal water teething at the stone,the last of the stars fading as the sky transformed from black to indigo. A pair of swans like large white clouds floated on the water, their heads tucked under their wings, as a gondola pulled up, a lantern on the prow, the gondolier on the stern, rubbing his sleepy eyes.

You and I have been happy; we haven’t been happy just once, we’ve been happy a thousand times. The chances that spring, that’s for everyone, like in the popular songs, may belong to us too – the chances are pretty bright at this time because as usual, I can carry most of contemporary literary opinion, liquidated, in the hollow of my hand – and when I do, I see the swan floating on it and – I find it to be you and you only…. Forget the past – what you can of it, and turn about and swim back home to me, to your haven for ever and ever – even though it may seem a dark cave at times and lit with torches of fury; it is the best refuge for you – turn gently in the waters through which you move and sail back…

As alluring as a floating swan, but as deadly as a silver bullet.

When he heard light, rushing footfalls, he turned his head. Someone was racing along the second-floor balcony. Then laughter drifted down from above. Glorious feminine laughter. He leaned out the archway and glanced at the grand staircase. Bella appeared on the landing above, breathless, smiling, a black satin robe gathered in her hands. As she slowed at the head of the stairs, she looked over her shoulder, her thick dark hair swinging like a mane. The pounding that came next was heavy and distant, growing louder until it was like boulders hitting the ground. Obviously, it was what she was waiting for. She let out a laugh, yanked her robe up even higher, and started down the stairs, bare feet skirting the steps as if she were floating. At the bottom, she hit the mosaic floor of the foyer and wheeled around just as Zsadist appeared in second-story hallway. The Brother spotted her and went straight for the balcony, pegging his hands into the rail, swinging his legs up and pushing himself straight off into thin air. He flew outward, body in a perfect swan dive--except he wasn't over water, he was two floors up over hard stone. John's cry for help came out as a mute, sustained rush of air-- Which was cut off as Zsadist dematerialized at the height of the dive. He took form twenty feet in front of Bella, who watched the show with glowing happiness. Meanwhile, John's heart pounded from shock...then pumped fast for a different reason. Bella smiled up at her mate, her breath still hard, her hands still gripping the robe, her eyes heavy with invitation. And Zsadist came forward to answer her call, seeming to get even bigger as he stalked over to her. The Brother's bonding scent filled the foyer, just as his low, lionlike growl did. The male was all animal at the moment....a very sexual animal. "You like to be chased, nalla, " Z said in a voice so deep it distorted. Bella's smile got even wider as she backed up into a corner. "Maybe." "So run some more, why don't you." The words were dark and even John caught the erotic threat in them. Bella took off, darting around her mate, going for the billiards room. Z tracked her like prey, pivoting around, his eyes leveled on the female's streaming hair and graceful body. As his lips peeled off his fangs, the white canines elongated, protruding from his mouth. And they weren't the only response he had to his shellan. At his hips, pressing into the front of his leathers, was an erection the size of a tree trunk. Z shot John a quick glance and then went back to his hunt, disappearing into the room, the pumping growl getting louder. From out of the open doors, there was a delighted squeal, a scramble, a female's gasp, and then....nothing. He'd caught her. ......When Zsadist came out a moment later, he had Bella in his arms, her dark hair trailing down his shoulder as she lounged in the strength that held her. Her eyes locked on Z's face while he looked where he was going, her hand stroking his chest, her lips curved in a private smile. There was a bite mark on her neck, one that had very definitely not been there before, and Bella's satisfaction as she stared at the hunger in her hellren's face was utterly compelling. John knew instinctively that Zsadist was going to finish two things upstairs: the mating and the feeding. The Brother was going to be at her throat and in between her legs. Probably at the same time. God, John wanted that kind of connection.

The Summer Day Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean— the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down— who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face. Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away. I don't know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

Look upon men and things with the inner eye, with its form and desire, never forgetting that the shadow they throw as they pass by, upon hillock or wall, is but the fleeting image of a mightier shadow, which, like the wing of an imperishable swan, floats over every soul that draws near to their soul. Do not believe that thoughts such as these can be mere ornaments, and without influence upon the lives of those who admit them. It is far more important that one’s life should be perceived than that it should be transformed; for no sooner has it been perceived, than it transforms itself of its own accord.

Upon it floated swans like boats and boats like swans, both lost in the nothingness of the heartless beauty.

But swan, float lightly because you are a swan, because by the exquisite curve of your neck the gods gave you some special favor, and even though you fracture it running against some man-made bridge, it healed and you sailed onward.-- F. Scott Fitzgerald to his wife Zelda.

The storm had passed and the whole fen lay bathed in spent sunlight. Every stream and stretch of water among the rushes, which had been whipped and tormented by the storm, lay quiet now, reflecting the piled masses of white and silver clouds that floated like swans on the far deep pools of the sky. Every twig was strung with sparkling crystal drops, and every drop had a rainbow caught in its heart.

Someone once said hell was other people. They were right. Specifically, hell was watching other people swan around an ice rink, drinking hot chocolate and making googly eyes at each other like they were in the middle of a goddamn Hallmark movie. It wasn’t even Christmas season, for fuck’s sake. It was worse. It was Valentine’s Day. A muscle flexed in my jaw as Bridget’s laughter floated over, joined by Steffan’s deeper laugh, and the urge to murder someone—someone male with blond hair and a name that began with S—intensified. What was so fucking hilarious, anyway? I couldn’t imagine anything being that funny, least of all something Steffan the Saint said.

We float in language like icebergs – four-fifths under the surface and only one-fifth of us projecting into the open air of immediate, non-linguistic experience.

You can sleep, sweetheart, I'll carry you," Edward soothed me. And I was in his arms, cradled against his chest — floating, all the pain gone. "Sleep now, Bella" were the last words I heard.

I was only a child when I learned how to fly I wanted to touch the colors of the bleeding sun and then I fell from the sky You never saw me again not even when I returned you never noticed my broken heart or how my wings were burned But if they tell you they saw me do a swan dive off that bridge Remember I’ve always been more afraid to die than I ever was to live And on the day I disappear You’ll all forget I was ever here I’ll float around from coast to coast And sing about how you made me a ghost. —Douglas J. Blackman, “The Day I Became a Ghost” 

Winter Landscape, with Rocks Water in the millrace, through a sluice of stone, plunges headlong into that black pond where, absurd and out-of-season, a single swan floats chaste as snow, taunting the clouded mind which hungers to haul the white reflection down. The austere sun descends above the fen, an orange cyclops-eye, scorning to look longer on this landscape of chagrin; feathered dark in thought, I stalk like a rook, brooding as the winter night comes on. Last summer's reeds are all engraved in ice as is your image in my eye; dry frost glazes the window of my hurt; what solace can be struck from rock to make heart's waste grow green again? Who'd walk in this bleak place? Sylvia Plath was one of the first and best of the modern confessional poets. She won a Pulitzer Prize posthumously for her Collected Poems after committing suicide at the age of 31, something she seemed to have been predicting in her writing and practicing for in real life.

On the centre of the lake, cooled by the piercing current of the Rhône, lay the true centre of the Western World. Upon it floated swans like boats and boats like swans, both lost in the nothingness of the heartless beauty.

Here’s the Uck, used to be the prettiest river in this part of the world, and now it’s just a glorified industrial sewer. The swans sink to the bottom, and the fishes float on the top. Well, that’s progress for you. You can’t stop progress.

You know, I’ve been wanting to tell you what the word Aria means on my world, but I just never seemed to get the chance. It refers to a beautiful song. A graceful melody that floats on air and delights the senses. It’s a fitting name for you.

One Night Stand" Listen, you silk-hearted bastard, I said in the bar last night, You wear those dream clothes Like a swan out of water. Listen, you wool-feathered bastard, My name, just for the record, is Leda. I can remember pretending That your red silk tie is a real heart That your raw wool suit is real flesh That you could float beside me with a swan’s touch Of casual satisfaction. But not the swan’s blood. Waking tomorrow, I remember only Somebody’s feathers and his wrinkled heart Draped loosely in my bed.

And then as the knives and forks began to clank softly above the white tablecloths, the violins would rise alone, now suddenly mature although tentative and unsure just a short while before; slim and narrow-waisted, they eloquently proceeded with their task, took up again the lost human cause, and pleaded before the indifferent tribunal of stars, now set in a sky on which the shapes of the instruments floated like water signs or fragments of keys, unfinished lyres or swans, an imitatory, thoughtless starry commentary on the margin of music.

Emma become secretly thrilled that she had reached at a first try the uncommon best of light lives, in no way attained by means of mediocre hearts. She permit herself float at the side of Lamartine meanderings, listened to harps on lakes, to all the songs of death swans, to the falling of the leaves, the natural virgins ascending to heaven, and the voice of the Eternal discoursing down the valleys. She wearied of it, would now not confess it, persevered from dependancy, and at closing was amazed to sense herself soothed, and with out a more dissapointment at coronary heart than wrinkles on her brow.

Night shift. Jamey raises his arm, and a hundred arms are raised. He smiles, with thousands of teeth. Jamey thinks of Narcissus bending to the pool. He thinks of how a swan on a calm lake is one with its reflection, and then lifting off, the bird divides from its self, and both parts becomes smaller and smaller. Division is more interesting than duplication, and an ax is a fascinating tool. It makes a fallen tree into wood that will keep your family warm. It does more than separate a whole into pieces; it changes the spirit of the thing, its use. He thinks about Elise checking her compact, and how he looks over her shoulder to catch her outlined eye in the mirror. Her eye, separated from the rest of her, floating. Normally he doesn't let his mind split into pieces, because it frightens him, but he's in a container here. He has so much time to think on the night shift.

I was going to make a confession. Then I remembered I don't make them very well. We still need to see the monkeys." "You don't really think I'm going to let a provocative statement like that slip by,do you?" "Well...I thought the best way to discourage you was to agree to go out with you-to some place like this, which I thought would bore you to distraction-then be as obnoxious as possible." "Have you been obnoxious?" His tone was mild and entirely too serious. "I thought you've been behaving very naturally." "Ouch." Shelby rubbed at the figurative wound under her heart. "In any case, I get the distinct impression that I haven't discouraged you at all." "Really?" Reaching for more popcorn, he leaned close and spoke gently in her ear "How did you come by that?" "Oh-" She cleared her throat. "Just a hunch." He found that tiny show of nerves very rewarding. Yes, the puzzle was coming together, piece by careful piece. It was the way he'd always structured his life. "Odd.And not once since we've been here have I mentioned that I'd like to find a small, dim room and make love to you,over and over." Warily, Shelby slid her eyes to his. "I'd just as soon you didn't. "All right." Alan slipped an arm around her waist. "I won't mention it while we're here." A smile tugged at her mouth, but she shook her head. "It's not going to come to that, Alan.It can't." "We have a fundamental disagreement." He paused on a bridge. Beneath them, swans floated haughtily. "Because to my way of thinking it has to.

The water was deep red, and there were no waves. She looked straight down again, and she was standing on a cliff above a perfectly vertical and colorless slope that led to the water. It looked warm, and so she put her hands together over her head, and in one elegant motion she leaned over and pushed off into a flawless swan dive and floated through the air until her fingertips broke the smooth surface. Her skin changed color in the cold, cold water as she sank to the bottom, and she knew in the dream that she had become her own red demon, but she also knew in the dream that when she woke up she would never, ever remember why.

Infinite Journey The sky was covered with swans and birds moving towards there endless infinite journey there image reflecting with new waves my small boat was moving with the winds some new lights falls on me makes me fly higher and higher beyond space towards the infintie journey of eternal love where i will listen the chanting of birds which are flying with my floating boat towards the endless journey where the sun always tries to meet the earth on the edges of oceans far far away where the waves tries to kiss the clouds

Like the night mist twining itself about the hills and hollows of the land, he enfolded her then, his mouth softly fierce upon her lips, her breasts, her belly as he led her up a wending mountain path of the Northland, past fairy rings and elfin trees to a place where Thor's hammer, Mjöllnir, split the heavens asunder, and Rhowenna knew she soared higher than the gods in Asgard before floating gently back to earth, to drift like a swan upon a wild Northland mere

between the flashes she caught a glimpse of a glass swan, floating along a mirrored lake. a vision of ice and stars and the cold, dark spaces between them.

Babe smiled, and crooked her own finger through his. “Pinkie swear.” Then her heart—that swollen sac of regret—tore, and she felt something slide down her cheek. She swiped away a tear, as astonished to see it as she would have been to see a lizard floating in the clarion-blue pool, as blue as Montego Bay itself, just down the lush, verdant hill.

My coworker in the basement is the color of the sunrise. he has a heart condition his pea-sized heart seldom beats. so we all tell him to walk around every now and then ’cause he’s gotten yellow in the cheeks and we sometimes blow chunks of air into his toothless mouth to bring him back to life. ’cause he’s curled up on his table like on a round bed whining about chest pain with so much moonshine he’s even stopped floating. we shove mint candies down his throat to make him smell nice when he opens his mouth and strapped to him we walk him in dresses and pants all over the school to show he’s a living security guard. the missus teachers have special looks they don’t recognize his face they pass through him every day they ask us if we have a new coworker. only sometimes does his mouth smell of dead swans and we wrinkle our noses and the teachers passing by think it’s from our unwashed socks. my co-worker doesn’t even know if he’s still alive. so yellow a sunrise and his heart like a pea beating hardly ever we slap him we swear at him for making us look like fools at work. but we care about him we hide him in the basement so he can sleep maybe he’ll bounce back. (in english by Diana Manole)

His lips softly brush against mine, and my feet float off the ground. We kiss again and again, and it’s like a wave of perfection comes crashing over

Ella woke again as they entered the picturesque village of Bibury. A stone bridge arched over the placid River Coln, and Ella craned her neck to watch a swan and its fuzzy, brown cygnets floating alongside beds of watercress and the boggy watermeadow called Rack Isle. Ella lifted her phone and snapped a picture. "It's like someone cued them." "I called ahead." They drove past a row of sandstone cottages with colorful gardens, and in the center of town, Heather pointed out the ancient Saxon church. "St. Mary's was on a Christmas stamp a few decades back." Ella rolled down her window to take another picture. "It's all so- so perfect.

I was sitting in the meadows one day, not long ago, at a place where there was a small brook. It was a hot day. The sky was very blue, and white clouds, like great swans, went floating over it to and fro. Just opposite me was a clump of green rushes, with dark velvety spikes, and among them one single tall, red cardinal flower, which was bending over the brook as if to see its own beautiful face in the water. But the cardinal did not seem to be vain.

The Swan Oh, a swan! Blooming in grace and power. Were you thrown out of the forest of reeds by Pan To flourish as a white rose-flower? Do not doubt: Over the tired waves An unearthly light shines out; He hides his bright plumage. The face of the flood-tide Grows clearer and clearer to see. Poppy-milk ripples, runs wide, Where the wings rested momentarily. Image of woman, He sings the deepest of deaths; Out of the glass-cold dew The sweet silence drips from his breath. Cup of down, Defenceless, utterly abandoning, He has forgotten the sound And the dreams by evening. Floating, drifting, Changed into golden grey, The swan is singing A song whose end is sadness and decay.

You know how ducks and swans look like they're floating gracefully, but they're actually paddling really hard to keep themselves afloat? Do you think they would feel sad if they realized nobody could see how much effort they're putting in?

How I have noiselessly floated down the stream of Time, Skipping from life to life, Changing from form to form. In the night, in the morning, All I received, I gave away In ever new gifts, In ever new songs. - Poem 8

M. and I have plagued each other with our differences for more than forty years. But it is also a tonic. M. will hardly look at a bush. She wants a speedboat; I want to sit down on the sand and look around and get dreamy; I want to see what spirits are peeking out of the faces of the roses. Years ago M. took flying lessons. In the afternoons I got to stand at the edge of the harbor and watch her stall the small plane over the water. That means you cut the engine and let the plane drop, nose first, down. Then you start the engine again, while the plane is dropping, and you level it, hopefully, and swoop away. Week after week M. came home looking the way I feel when I've seen wild swans. It was terrifying, and wonderful. Along with the differences that abide in each of us, there is also in each of us the maverick, the darling stubborn one who won't listen, who insists, who chooses preference or the spirited guess over yardsticks or even history. I suspect this maverick is somewhat what the soul is, or at least that the soul lives close by and companionably with its agitating and inquiring force. And of course all of it, the differences and the maverick uprisings, are part of the richness of life. If you are too much like myself, what shall I learn of you, or you of me? I bring home sassafras leaves and M. looks and admires. She tells me how it feels to float in the air above the town and the harbor, and my world is sweetened by her description of those blue miles. The touch of our separate excitements is another of the gifts of our life together.

This landscape consists of Pablo Casals' cello and four turkey vultures riding the ribbon of warm air rising from the highway. Concrete forms for abstractions my mind can only grope at: the wings and blood, the blue and black and float and soar, the aching beauty.

At the ebb of day comes the tide of night Carrying myriads of star-flowers Floating on its dark waters. - Poem 1