有哪些描写大海的迷人语句？
在整理照片，发现去年真是拍过太多海了，每次看海的时候心情都很不一样。在看《情人》的时候又看到这么一句，「大海是无形的，无可比拟的，简单极了。」很喜欢，所以提了这个问题。
1，遇见你这么美好的事情，就像森林听见风声，像夏天相配西瓜，像海洋容纳蓝色。
2，未来想住在海边，风大的城市总是有许多好处，比如可以很快吹干眼泪，比如堵住我的嘴说不出分手，比如把讨厌的人吹到喜马拉雅山，再也不要相见。
3，如果有时间，你一定要去看海，有人陪最好，没人陪也无所谓。听听歌，拍拍照，找个地方坐下来，等海浪卷走你的焦躁。
4，海和你都有治愈坏心情的超能力，海可以治愈心情 而你可以治愈一切。
5.自带滤镜的夏，海是可触碰的蓝天。
6，人间忽晚，山河已秋，候鸟南飞，万河归海 ，我希望你是为我而来。
7，我喜欢大海的干净，可我生来就在离海最远的城市。
8，海边有风浪，心中有晴天。
9，不赶什么浪潮，也不搭什么船，我自己有海。
10，我看过太多太美的风景，如同伊甸般的仙境。而大海太平太静，有多少故事无人倾听。
11，往心里装一片海,，再装一些少女心和爱。
12，一起吹过海风的人大概会记得久一些。
13，温柔的蓝色潮汐，告诉我没有关系。
14，每一座孤岛，都被深海紧紧拥抱。
15，「你知道大海为什么是蓝色的吗？」
「因为海里有鱼。」
「鱼会吐泡泡！」
「布鲁布鲁，blue blue!」
16，「我们志在星辰大海，无需为蜉蝣驻足」
17.也许有人到达不了彼岸，但是我们共同拥有过大海。
18，当阳光照在海面上，
我在思念你，
当朦胧月色洒在泉水里，
我在思念你。
19，并不是所有鱼都活在同一片海,，我要游到人海里去了。
20，「我喜欢星辰大海喜欢落日夕阳，那天太阳落山时，我喜欢的事物有了著落，当然还有那天夜晚悄悄亲吻我的你」
我们如海鸥之与波涛相遇似地,遇见了,走近了。海鸥飞去,波涛滚滚地流开,我们也分别了。
Like the meeting of the seagulls and the waves we meet and come near.
The seagulls fly off, the waves roll away and we depart.
泰戈尔
谢邀。以下来自于德瑞克沃尔科特的诗句。
寺山修司的的《寺山修司少女诗集》里，有一章就叫做海，这里直接复制粘贴过来一些。
《一个短篇的抒情诗》
眼泪是人可以做出来的一小块海水。
在月夜的海上，放了一张信纸上去。
被月亮的光线所照耀，
信纸会变成蓝色吗？
人们称为鱼的东西，
都是某人放下的信纸。
你，知道吗？ 海的起源，那是女人的一滴眼泪。 那眼泪，为何无法停止地将地球浸湿了？没有一本科学书了解，只有我一个人知道。
另外，戴望舒翻译的加西亚·洛尔迦的一首《水呀，你到哪儿去？》
如下:
水呀你到哪儿去？
我顺著河流，
一路笑到海边去。
海呀你到哪里去？
我向上面的河流
找个地方歇脚去。
赤杨啊，你呢，你做甚么？
我对你甚么话也没有，
我呀。。。我颤抖！
我要甚么，我不要甚么，
问河去还是问海去？
四只没有方向的鸟儿，
在高高的赤杨树上。）
祖传分割线－——————————
更新一首吧，最近读到的，戈麦的《大海》
我没有阅读过大海的书稿
在梦里 我翻看著毫洋各招待晦暗的笔记我没有遇见大海的时辰
海水的星星掩著面孔从睡梦中飞过我没有探听过的那一个国度里的业绩当心灵的潮水汹涌汇集 明月当空夜晚走回恋人的身边在你神秘的岸边徐步逡巡大海 我没有缔听过你洪亮的涛声那飞跃万代的红铜我没有见过你丝绸般浩淼的面孔山一样、耸立的波浪可是 当我生命的晦冥时刻到来的时候我来到你的近旁黄沙掠走阳光 乌云滚过大地那是我不明不暗的前生 它早已到达
这些：
The river is within us,
the sea is all about us;
the granite
Into which it reaches,the beaches where it tosses
Its hints of earlier and other creation:The starfish,
the horseshoe crab,
the whales backbone;
The pools where it offers to our curiosity
The more delicate algaeand the sea anemone.
are different voices
Often together heard: the whine in the rigging,
The menace
and caress
of wave that breaks on water,
The distant rote in the granite teeth,and the seagull:
a time
Older than the time of chronometers,older
Than time counted by anxious worried womenLying awake, calculating the future,Trying to unweave, unwind, unravelAnd piece together the past and the future,Between midnight and dawn, when the past is all deception,The future futureless, before the morning watchWhen time stops and time is never ending;And the ground swell, that is and was from the beginning,ClangsThe bell.IIWhere is there an end of it, the soundless wailing,
The silent withering of autumn flowersDropping their petals and remaining motionless;Where is there an end to the drifting wreckage,The prayer of the bone on the beach, the unprayablePrayer at the calamitous annunciation?There is no end, but addition: the trailing
Consequence of further days and hours,While emotion takes to itself the emotionlessYears of living among the breakageOf what was believed in as the most reliable—And therefore the fittest for renunciation.There is the final addition, the failing
Pride or resentment at failing powers,The unattached devotion which might pass for devotionless,In a drifting boat with a slow leakage,Where is the end of them, the fishermen sailing
Into the winds tail, where the fog cowers?We cannot think of a time that is oceanlessOr of an ocean not littered with wastageOr of a future that is not liableLike the past, to have no destination.We have to think of them as forever bailing,
Setting and hauling, while the North East lowersOver shallow banks unchanging and erosionlessOr drawing their money, drying sails at dockage;Not as making a trip that will be unpayableFor a haul that will not bear examination.There is no end of it, the voiceless wailing,
No end to the withering of withered flowers,To the movement of pain that is painless and motionless,To the drift of the sea and the drifting wreckage,The bones prayer to Death its God. Only the hardly, barely prayablePrayer of the one Annunciation.It seems, as one becomes older,
That the past has another pattern, and ceases to be a mere sequence—Or even development: the latter a partial fallacyEncouraged by superficial notions of evolution,Which becomes, in the popular mind, a means of disowning the past.The moments of happiness—not the sense of well-being,Fruition, fulfilment, security or affection,Or even a very good dinner, but the sudden illumination—We had the experience but missed the meaning,And approach to the meaning restores the experienceIn a different form, beyond any meaningWe can assign to happiness. I have said beforeThat the past experience revived in the meaningIs not the experience of one life onlyBut of many generations—not forgettingSomething that is probably quite ineffable:The backward look behind the assuranceOf recorded history, the backward half-lookOver the shoulder, towards the primitive terror.Now, we come to discover that the moments of agony(Whether, or not, due to misunderstanding,Having hoped for the wrong things or dreaded the wrong things,Is not in question) are likewise permanentWith such permanence as time has. We appreciate this betterIn the agony of others, nearly experienced,Involving ourselves, than in our own.For our own past is covered by the currents of action,But the torment of others remains an experienceUnqualified, unworn by subsequent attrition.People change, and smile: but the agony abides.Time the destroyer is time the preserver,Like the river with its cargo of dead negroes, cows and chicken coops,The bitter apple, and the bite in the apple.And the ragged rock in the restless waters,Waves wash over it, fogs conceal it;On a halcyon day it is merely a monument,In navigable weather it is always a seamarkTo lay a course by: but in the sombre seasonOr the sudden fury, is what it always was.IIII sometimes wonder if that is what Krishna meant—
Among other things—or one way of putting the same thing:That the future is a faded song, a Royal Rose or a lavender sprayOf wistful regret for those who are not yet here to regret,Pressed between yellow leaves of a book that has never been opened.And the way up is the way down, the way forward is the way back.You cannot face it steadily, but this thing is sure,That time is no healer: the patient is no longer here.When the train starts, and the passengers are settledTo fruit, periodicals and business letters(And those who saw them off have left the platform)Their faces relax from grief into relief,To the sleepy rhythm of a hundred hours.Fare forward, travellers! not escaping from the pastInto different lives, or into any future;You are not the same people who left that stationOr who will arrive at any terminus,While the narrowing rails slide together behind you;And on the deck of the drumming linerWatching the furrow that widens behind you,You shall not think the past is finishedOr the future is before us.At nightfall, in the rigging and the aerial,Is a voice descanting (though not to the ear,The murmuring shell of time, and not in any language)Fare forward, you who think that you are voyaging;You are not those who saw the harbourReceding, or those who will disembark.Here between the hither and the farther shoreWhile time is withdrawn, consider the futureAnd the past with an equal mind.At the moment which is not of action or inactionYou can receive this: "on whatever sphere of beingThe mind of a man may be intentAt the time of death"—that is the one action(And the time of death is every moment)Which shall fructify in the lives of others:And do not think of the fruit of action.Fare forward. O voyagers, O seamen,You who came to port, and you whose bodiesWill suffer the trial and judgement of the sea,Or whatever event, this is your real destination.So Krishna, as when he admonished ArjunaOn the field of battle. Not fare well,But fare forward, voyagers.Lady, whose shrine stands on the promontory,
Pray for all those who are in ships, thoseWhose business has to do with fish, andThose concerned with every lawful trafficAnd those who conduct them.Repeat a prayer also on behalf of
Women who have seen their sons or husbandsSetting forth, and not returning:Figlia del tuo figlio,Queen of Heaven.Also pray for those who were in ships, and
Ended their voyage on the sand, in the seas lipsOr in the dark throat which will not reject themOr wherever cannot reach them the sound of the sea bellsPerpetual angelus.VTo communicate with Mars, converse with spirits,
To report the behaviour of the sea monster,Describe the horoscope, haruspicate or scry,Observe disease in signatures, evokeBiography from the wrinkles of the palmAnd tragedy from fingers; release omensBy sortilege, or tea leaves, riddle the inevitableWith playing cards, fiddle with pentagramsOr barbituric acids, or dissectThe recurrent image into pre-conscious terrors—To explore the womb, or tomb, or dreams; all these are usualPastimes and drugs, and features of the press:And always will be, some of them especiallyWhen there is distress of nations and perplexityWhether on the shores of Asia, or in the Edgware Road.Mens curiosity searches past and futureAnd clings to that dimension. But to apprehendThe point of intersection of the timelessWith time, is an occupation for the saint—No occupation either, but something givenAnd taken, in a lifetimes death in love,Ardour and selflessness and self-surrender.For most of us, there is only the unattendedMoment, the moment in and out of time,The distraction fit, lost in a shaft of sunlight,The wild thyme unseen, or the winter lightningOr the waterfall, or music heard so deeplyThat it is not heard at all, but you are the musicWhile the music lasts. These are only hints and guesses,Hints followed by guesses; and the restIs prayer, observance, discipline, thought and action.The hint half guessed, the gift half understood, is Incarnation.Here the impossible unionOf spheres of existence is actual,Here the past and futureAre conquered, and reconciled,Where action were otherwise movementOf that which is only movedAnd has in it no source of movement—Driven by daemonic, chthonicPowers. And right action is freedomFrom past and future also.For most of us, this is the aimNever here to be realised;Who are only undefeatedBecause we have gone on trying;We, content at the lastIf our temporal reversion nourish(Not too far from the yew-tree)The life of significant soil.推荐阅读：