John Denver Quotes

She buried her face in his shoulder. And while the truth still scared her, being in his arms made her feel like the sea finding its shore, like a traveler returning after a long, hard, distant trip-- finally returning home.

I still frequent my parents' house. I go there to escape, back to the bedroom that I grew up in. Just to sit there and feel small.

The home should be the treasure chest of living.

The kitchen really is the castle itself. This is where we spend our happiest moments and where we find the joy of being a family.

This house was our dream-the gardens, the study, even the swimming pool. Even though I can't see John when I wake up in the morning, I can always feel him here with me.

When you come out of the storms and sub-zero temperatures into a tiny yurt, there's a sense that family love and care is the most important thing in the world.

Home, more than anything, means warmth and bed.

I still close my eyes and go home - I can always draw from that.

Delhi, for me, means my mother and lots of love!

Certainly, to have a woman who waits at home for you, who will sleep with you, gives a warm feeling like having something you must say; it makes you glow, keeps you company, helps you to live.

We have no home, she told me. I am your home.

May my heart be your shelter, and my arms be your home.

I grow old though pleased with my memories The tasks I can no longer complete Are balanced by the love of the tasks gone past I offer no apology only this plea: When I am frayed and strained and drizzle at the end Please someone cut a square and put me in a quilt That I might keep some child warm And some old person with no one else to talk to Will hear my whispers And cuddle near

It's not a house, it's a home.

Outside are the storms and strangers: we — Oh, close, safe, warm sleep I and she, — I and she!

I don’t suppose I really know you very well - but I know you smell like the delicious damp grass that grows near old walls and that your hands are beautiful opening out of your sleeves and that the back of your head is a mossy sheltered cave when there is trouble in the wind and that my cheek just fits the depression in your shoulder.

Hope survives best at the hearth.

Home's the most excellent place of all.

Home! That was what they meant, those caressing appeals, Those soft touches wafted through the air, those invisible little hands pulling and tugging, all one way.

The first thing the boy Garion remembered was the kitchen at Faldor's farm. For all the rest of his life he had a special warm feeling for kitchens and those peculiar sounds and smells that seemed somehow to combine into a bustling seriousness that had to do with love and food and comfort and security and, above all, home. No matter how high Garion rose in life, he never forgot that all his memories began in that kitchen.

What Lily craved was the darkness made by enfolding arms, the silence which is not solitude, but compassion holding its breath.

Man wanted a home, a place for warmth, or comfort, first of physical warmth, then the warmth of the affections.

We comfort ourselves by reliving memories of protection. Something closed must retain our memories, while leaving them their original value as images. Memories of the outside world will never have the same tonality as those of home and, by recalling these memories, we add to our store of dreams; we are never real historians, but always near poets, and our emotion is perhaps nothing but an expression of a poetry that was lost.

Oh, I can't describe my home. It is home, and I can't put its charm into words