A Quote by Christopher Columbus

Thanks be to God, the air is soft as in April in Seville, and it is a pleasure to be in it, so fragrant it is. — © Christopher Columbus
Thanks be to God, the air is soft as in April in Seville, and it is a pleasure to be in it, so fragrant it is.
The air soft as that of Seville in April, and so fragrant that it was delicious to breathe it.
God does not live in structures of stone or brick. He lives in soft hearts warm with sympathy and fragrant with universal love.
I have seen the Lady April bringing the daffodils, Bringing the springing grass and the soft warm April rain.
I exist. It is soft, so soft, so slow. And light: it seems as though it suspends in the air. It moves.
When the April wind wakes the call for the soil, I hold the plough as my only hold upon the earth, and, as I follow through the fresh and fragrant furrow, I am planted with every foot-step, growing, budding, blooming into a spirit of spring.
Outside, the September air was enticingly fragrant, yellow with pollen and rich, lemony sunlight.
Pansies in soft April rains Fill their stalks with honeyed sap Drawn from Earth's prolific lap.
Giving thanks to God for both His temporal and spiritual blessings in our lives is not just a nice thing to do - it is the moral will of God. Failure to give Him the thanks due Him is sin.
Three o'clock in the morning. The soft April night is looking at my windows and caressingly winking at me with its stars. I can't sleep, I am so happy.
The air was fragrant with a thousand trodden aromatic herbs, with fields of lavender, and with the brightest roses blushing in tufts all over the meadows.
April's air stirs in Willow-leaves...a butterfly Floats and balances
It is not known precisely where angels dwell whether in the air, the void, or the planets. It has not been God's pleasure that we should be informed of their abode.
Air is beautiful, yet you cannot see it. It's soft, yet you cannot touch it. Air is a little like my brain.
Pleasure disappoints, possibility never. And what wine is so sparkling, who so fragrant, what so intoxicating, as possibility.
The April rain, the April rain, Comes slanting down in fitful showers, Then from the furrow shoots the grain, And banks are fledged with nestling flowers; And in grey shawl and woodland bowers The cuckoo through the April rain Calls once again.
Ye Hypocrites, are these your pranks To murder men and gie God thanks Desist for shame, proceed no further God won't accept your thanks for murder.
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