A Quote by Padraic Colum

To Meath of the pastures,
From wet hills by the sea,
Through Leitrim and Longford,
Go my cattle and me. — © Padraic Colum
To Meath of the pastures, From wet hills by the sea, Through Leitrim and Longford, Go my cattle and me.
Then the sun broke above the crest of the hills and the entire countryside looked soaked in blood, the arroyos deep in shadow, the cones of dead volcanoes stark and biscuit-colored against the sky. I could smell pinion trees, wet sage, woodsmoke, cattle in the pastures, and creek water that had melted from snow. I could smell the way the country probably was when it was only a dream in the mind of God.
This house has been far out at sea all night, The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills, Winds stampeding the fields under the window Floundering black astride and blinding wet Till day rose; then under an orange sky The hills had new places, and wind wielded Blade-light, luminous black and emerald, Flexing like the lens of a mad eye.
All over the land are vast and handsome pastures, with good grass for cattle, and it strikes me the soil would be very fertile were the country inhabited and improved by reasonable people.
Beautifully Bleak. I likened the hills encircling Canberra to the sea. They, like the sea, could be a sunny beguiling blue, or deep and inky. They could be distant and mysterious, or beautifully bleak as the wind tore across the plains from their snowy peaks. The hills were ever changing like the sea.
My first love was, and remains, manual labor; sowing and harvesting, the pastures, the flock, and the cattle.
Nevada involved cattle, right? First of all, I thought the Lord owned the cattle on the thousand hills. What about the fact that even in early Scripture, the issue of water and forage rights is actually talked about by Abraham?
What visionary tints the year puts on, When falling leaves falter through motionless air Or numbly cling and shiver to be gone! How shimmer the low flats and pastures bare, As with her nectar Hebe Autumn fills The bowl between me and those distant hills, And smiles and shakes abroad her misty, tremulous hair!
History, in other words, is just a device to be used by well-paid boobherds to drive the American cattle in bovine content to their pastures or to the abattoir.
I will weep and wail for the mountains and take up a lament concerning the desert pastures. They are desolate and untraveled, and the lowing of cattle is not heard. The birds of the air have fled and the animals are gone.
Coming, as I do, from mountain folk on one side and sea followers on the other, there are few old songs of the hills or the sea with which I am not familiar.
Nowhere in this country, from sea to sea, does nature comfort us with such assurance of plenty, such rich and tranquil beauty as in those unsung, unpainted hills of Pennsylvania.
It is the sea that whitens the roof. The sea drifts through the winter air. It is the sea that the north wind makes. The sea is in the falling snow.
What change has made the pastures sweet And reached the daisies at my feet, And cloud that wears a golden hem? This lovely world, the hills, the sward-- They all look fresh, as if our Lord But yesterday had finished them.
For instance, I'm in Beverly Hills right now at a hotel. I told myself, "Man, it's so beautiful out here. If I ever moved to L.A., I would probably want to buy a house in Beverly Hills." The thing is, once I leave Beverly Hills, [I realize] there's no bodegas in Beverly Hills. Once I leave L.A. and go back to Miami or if I go visit New York, it's like, "Oh man, there's the bodega." What I'm saying is that you can't forget the reality. Sometimes people take success and forget about reality.
O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee!
On the other hand, if there's an underlying core of poetry that I go to, I go to the sea. I've lived on the sea all my life. I live on the sea in Cape Breton.
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