We tourists call it grass, but there is no grass to be proud of in California.
No one can paint the sky; no one would accept it as true to nature if once caught on the canvas.
I will not attempt to describe the mountains with their many charms.

I listened to a lecture lately where a man was struggling to do this, and it was positively painful.

The flowery verbiage, the accumulated adjectives, the poetical quotations were overpowering.

I seemed actually sinking into luscious mellifluousness.

I shook it off my fingers, as if it were maple syrup.