White Egret Quotes

Two yellow orioles sing under emerald willows One line of White Egrets ascends clear skies Window frames Western riged snow of a thousand autumns Door moors Eastern Wu a boat of ten-thousand li

It was the egret, flying out of the lemon grove, that started it. I won’t pretend I saw it straight away as the conventional herald of adventure, the white stag of the fairy-tale, which, bounding from the enchanted thicket, entices the prince away from his followers, and loses him in the forest where danger threatens with the dusk.

After midday, the rain eased, and the Land Rover rode into Pokhara on a shaft of storm light. Next day there was humid sun and shifting southern skies, but to the north a deep tumult of swirling grays was all that could be seen of the Himalaya. At dusk, white egrets flapped across the sunken clouds, now black with rain; on earth, the dark had come. Then four miles above these mud streets of the lowlands, at a point so high as to seem overhead, a luminous whiteness shone- the light of snows. Glaciers loomed and vanished in the grays, and the sky parted, and the snow cone of Machhapuchare glistened like a spire of a higher kingdom. In the night, the stars convened, and the vast ghost of Machhapuchare radiated light, although there was no moon.

His mother had always been a headstrong woman, and with her grayish-white mane and unsmiling face, she appeared as regal and intimidating as she had ever been. Still, seeing her through other people’s eyes, Hanfeng realized that all that made her who she was—the decades of solitude in her widowhood, her coldness to the prying eyes of people who tried to mask their nosiness with friendliness, and her faith in the notion of living one’s own life without having to go out of one’s way for other people—could be deemed pointless and laughable. Perhaps the same could be said of any living creature: a caterpillar chewing on a leaf, unaware of the beak of an approaching bird; an egret mesmerized by its reflection in a pond, as if it were the master of the universe; or Hanfeng’s own folly of repeating the same pattern of hope and heartbreak, hoping despite heartbreak.

Silent morning Quiet nature in dim light It is almost peaceless of the chirping of birds Waiting for the sunrise Feeling satisfied with pure breath Busy life- in pursuit of livelihood, running people In the intensity of the wood-burning sun, astray finch Sometimes the advent of north-wester I’m scared The calamitous heartache of the falling Caesalpinia pulcherrima! Listen to get ears Surprisingly I saw the unadulterated green weald Vernal, yellow and crimson colors are the glorious beauty of the unique nature An amazing reflection of Bengal The housewife’s fringe of azure color sari fly in the gentle breeze The cashew forest on the bank of flowing rivers white egret couple peep-bo The kite crookedly flies get lost in the far unknown The footstep of blustery childhood on the zigzag path Standing on a head-high hill touches the fog Beckoning with the hand of the magical horizon The liveliness of a rainy-soaked juvenile Momentary fascinated visibility of Ethnic group’s pineapple, tea, banana and jhum cultivation at the foot of the hill Trailer- shrub, algae and pebble-stone come back to life in the cleanly stream of the fountain Bumble bee is rudderless in the drunken smell of mountain wild flower The heart of the most beloved is touched by pure love In the distant sea water, pearl glow in the sunlight Rarely, the howl of a hungry tiger float in the air from a deep forest The needy fisherman’s ​​hope and aspiration are mortgaged to the infinite sea The waves come rushing on the beach delete the footprint to the beat of the dancing The white cotton cloud is invisible in the bluey The mew flies at impetuous speed to an unknown destination A slice of happy smile at the bend of the wave The western sky covered with the crimson glow of twilight Irritated by the cricket’s endless acrid sound The evening lamp is lit to flickering light of the firefly The red crabs tittup wildly on the beach Steadfast seeing Sunset A beautiful dream Next sunrise.

Just as I'm about to step into the canoe, an egret flies low over the glassy water. The bird is white all over with delicate wisps at the head and tail. We both stop to look. The egret tucks her long neck close to her body, and her wings nearly touch the shining surface. It's a mirror---egret above, egret below. She's followed by a series of dark circles, the air from each wingbeat lifting the water. "What's that one called?" Adlai asks, though he surely must know. "Snowy," I say. "Snowy egret.

In the pool, a long-legged bird had alighted: white-feathered, long-beaked. Two feet high at the shoulder, at least. As it stepped, it didn’t disturb the flowers; its great feet slipped between them and rose again, dripping. Mahit didn’t know the word for the kind of bird it was. “Ibis,” maybe. Or “egret.” There were a lot of kinds of birds in Teixcalaanli, and one word for “bird” in Stationer. There’d been more, once. They didn’t need more than that now. The one stood for the concept.

We made love then, under the trees, near the bank of the marsh sprinkled with snow-white egrets. I held him to me, and I looked up at the sky, thinking that this moment must be what absolute perfection was like. It felt as if we were melding together in a timeless kind of bliss. When we were both satiated, Sam shielded me from the breeze with his big body, keeping his arms around me, and I curled into his nook, closing my eyes. Every part of me tingled with pleasure and satisfaction. I had never felt like that before.

The vista from atop the poinciana was timeless and serene—a long string of egrets crossing the distant ’glades; a squadron of white pelicans circling a nearby bay; a pair of ospreys hovering kitelike above a tidal creek. It was a perfect picture and a perfect silence.

You cannot defeat me,” the doppler snarled. “Because I am you, Geralt.” “You are mistaken, Tellico,” the Witcher said softly. “Drop your sword and resume Biberveldt’s form. Otherwise you’ll regret it, I warn you.” “I am you,” the doppler repeated. “You will not gain an advantage over me. You cannot defeat me, because I am you!” “You cannot have any idea what it means to be me, mimic.” Tellico lowered the hand gripping the sword. “I am you,” he repeated. “No,” the Witcher countered, “you are not. And do you know why? Because you’re a poor, little, good-natured doppler. A doppler who, after all, could have killed Biberveldt and buried his body in the undergrowth, by so doing gaining total safety and utter certainty that he would not be unmasked, ever, by anybody, including the halfling’s spouse, the famous Gardenia Biberveldt. But you didn’t kill him, Tellico, because you didn’t have the courage. Because you’re a poor, little, good-natured doppler, whose close friends call him Dudu. And whoever you might change into you’ll always be the same. You only know how to copy what is good in us, because you don’t understand the bad in us. That’s what you are, doppler.” Tellico moved backwards, pressing his back against the tent’s canvas. “Which is why,” Geralt continued, “you will now turn back into Biberveldt and hold your hands out nicely to be tied up. You aren’t capable of defying me, because I am what you are unable of copying. You are absolutely aware of this, Dudu. Because you took over my thoughts for a moment.” Tellico straightened up abruptly. His face’s features, still those of the Witcher, blurred and spread out, and his white hair curled and began to darken. “You’re right, Geralt,” he said indistinctly, because his lips had begun to change shape. “I took over your thoughts. Only briefly, but it was sufficient. Do you know what I’m going to do now?” The leather witcher jacket took on a glossy, cornflower blue colour. The doppler smiled, straightened his plum bonnet with its egret’s feather, and tightened the strap of the lute slung over his shoulder. The lute which had been a sword a moment ago. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Witcher,” he said, with the rippling laughter characteristic of Dandelion. “I’ll go on my way, squeeze my way into the crowd and change quietly into any-old-body, even a beggar. Because I prefer being a beggar in Novigrad to being a doppler in the wilds.