Sometimes She Has Imagined What It Would Be Like To Fly, To Live In The River, To Run Like A Horse. She Has Dreamed Of That Freedom, That Power, And Fears The Wildness In Herself That Wants To Live As Beasts Live, Moved Purely By Need And Desire. She Has Felt Torn Between The Heat Of Her Limbs And The Thoughts In Her Mind Telling Her To Be Careful And Good And Always Calm. Don't Scream Or Cry, Don't Run To Him And Throw Yourself At His Feet, Pleading For Him To Take You In His Arms, Don't Strip Off Your Clothes And Run Naked To The Water, Wild With Wanting.
Jazz, I Mean, Music Will Always Move, Because It Can't Become Stagnant. Because If It Becomes Stagnant, It's Like A River, It'll Kill Us All. It Has To Keep Moving, Music Will Always Flow.
The Ancient Poets Animated All Sensible Objects With Gods Or Geniuses, Calling Them By The Names And Adorning Them With The Properties Of Woods, Rivers, Mountains, Lakes, Cities, Nations, And Whatever Their Enlarged & Numerous Senses Could Perceive.
Plenty Of Folks Are So Contrary That If They Should Fall Into The River, They Would Insist Upon Floating Upstream.
After Crossing The Smoky Hill River, I Felt Comparatively Safe As This Was The Last Stream I Had To Cross.
The River Flows At Its Own Sweet Will, But The Flood Is Bound In The Two Banks. If It Were Not Thus Bound, Its Freedom Would Be Wasted.
Ludlow....is Probably The Loveliest Town In England With Its Hill Of Georgian Houses Ascending From The River Teme To The Great Tower Of The Cross-shaped Church, Rising Behind A Classic Market Building.
The Creatures With Whom We Share The Planet And Whom, In Our Arrogance, We Wrongly Patronize For Being Lesser Forms, They Are Not Brethren, They Are Not Underlings, They Are Other Nations, Caught With Ourselves In The Net Of Life And Time, Fellow Prisoners Of The Splendour And Travail Of The Earth.
