A Quote by Garth Brooks

I'll never reach my destination, If I never try, So I will sail my vessel, 'Til the river runs dry. — © Garth Brooks
I'll never reach my destination, If I never try, So I will sail my vessel, 'Til the river runs dry.
You'll never miss the water 'til the well runs dry.
The problem with water, though, is that the shortfalls don't show up until the very end. You can go on pumping unsustainably until the day you run out. Then all you have is the recharge flow, which comes from precipitation. This is not decades away, this is years away. We're already seeing huge shortages in China, where the Yellow River runs dry for part of each year. The Yellow River is the cradle of Chinese civilization. It first failed to reach the sea in 1972, and since 1985 it's run dry for part of each year. For 1997 it was dry for 226 days.
This poem will never reach its destination. On Rousseau's Ode To Posterity
Compassion is the heart that never stops loving others. It is like a wellspring that never runs dry.
Always go with the river of life. Never try to go against the current, and never try to go faster than the river. Just move in absolute relaxation, so that each moment you are at home, at ease, at peace with existence.
You will never reach your destination if you stop and throw stones at every dog that barks.
Without goals, and plans to reach them, you are like a ship that has set sail with no destination.
You've never seen Manhattan 'til you've flown right up the East River. It's beautiful.
The experiences are so innumerable and varied, that the journey appears to be interminable and the Destination is ever out of sight. But the wonder of it is, when at last you reach your Destination you find that you had never travelled at all! It was a journey from here to Here.
My blood G cold, never seen my dad cry. And I'm a bleed your block til the cash dry!
You will never reach your destination if you stop & throw stones at every dog that barks...Better keep biscuits & Move on.
Ah, drink again This river that is the taker-away of pain, And the giver-back of beauty! In these cool waves What can be lost?-- Only the sorry cost Of the lovely thing, ah, never the thing itself! The level flood that laves The hot brow And the stiff shoulder Is at our temples now. Gone is the fever, But not into the river; Melted the frozen pride, But the tranquil tide Runs never the warmer for this, Never the colder. Immerse the dream. Drench the kiss. Dip the song in the stream.
To reach a port, we must sail - sail, not tie at anchor - sail, not drift.
They will say I smoked cigarettes and marijuana, cursed hoarse as a crow in all my languages, and loved morphine and Demerol and tequila and pulque, women and men. I will shrug my illusion of shoulders and answer that I am a water woman, not a vessel, not something you can sail or charter. I am instead the tributary, the river, the fluid source, and the sea itself. I am all her rainy implications. And what do you, with your rusted compass, know of love?
When you give, you reveal a spiritual truth, that the flow of life never runs dry.
The artesian well of joy never runs dry. We clog it with our thoughts.
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