Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Boughs. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Boughs Quotes And Sayings by 89 Authors including Alexander Pope,Jonathan Swift,Andrew Marvell,Stephen King,Publilius Syrus for you to enjoy and share.
A pear-tree planted nigh:
'Twas charg'd with fruit that made a goodly show,
And hung with dangling pears was every bough.
But a Broom-stick, perhaps you will say, is an Emblem of a Tree standing on its Head; and pray what is Man but a topsy-turvy Creature? His Animal Faculties perpetually mounted on his Rational; his Head where his Heels should be, groveling on the Earth.
Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide.
As the twig is bent the bough is shaped, that was another old saying, and once a pretentious asshole, always a pretentious asshole.
It is well to moor your bark with two anchors.
Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees Bending to counterfeit a breeze ...
A blundering wind scatters yellowed leaves...
The wind kicks in stronger, branches clatter. Or maybe skeletons. Bones of abandonment. Ghosts that will never be.
A tree there towere Tall and branching That house upholding The hall's wonder Its leaves their hangings Its limbs rafters Its mighty bole In the midst standing.
I don't 'boink' anyone. I fuck,
Low stir of leaves and dip of oars And lapsing waves on quiet shores.
boron - boro
Walls have tongues, and hedges ears.
Hickory dickory dock my daddy's nuts from shellshock.
quarters, long hoop houses covered in semi-opaque white
Flamingo necks, peacock brains, pike livers, lark tongues, sow's udders, elephant trunks and ears extravagantly frilled with parsley.
Birds sing on a bare bough; O, believer, canst not thou?
They are bearcrawls ... a bearclaw is a donut
a furtive groove
The customs and fashions of men change like leaves on the bough, some of which go and others come.
Interspersed in lawn and opening glades,
Thin trees arise that shun each others' shades.
Maple. Maypole
Catch and carry.
Ash and Ember.
Elderberry.
Woolen. Woman.
Moon at night.
Willow. Window.
Candlelight.
Fallow farrow.
Ash and oak.
Bide and borrow.
Chimney smoke.
Barrel. Barley.
Stone and stave.
Wind and water.
Misbehave.
In Winter the bare boughs that seem to sleep Work covertly, preparing for their Spring.
Trees hang their branches
The trees and shrubs rear white arms to the sky on every side; and where were walls and fences, we see forms stretching in frolic gambols across the dusky landscape, as if Nature had strewn her fresh designs over the fields by night as models for man's art.
Discs of umbrellas poured over suburban terraces with the smooth round ebullience of a Chopin waltz. They sat in the distance under the lugubrious dripping elms, elms like maps of Europe, elms frayed at the end like bits of chartreuse wool, elms heavy and bunchy as sour grapes.
Tree limbs rise and fall like the ecstatic arms of those who have submitted to the mystical life. Leaf sounds talk together like poets making fresh metaphors.
would flower; and where birds came - and pecked
When the wind blows through a wood, its mass is cut and closed by every leaf, forming a train of jittery vortices in the air.
the incessant seethe of grasses
The hedges are spruting like chicks from the eggs when they are newly hatched or as the vulgar says clacked.
As a Midlander and a big walker, I'd always loved ridge and furrow fields, the plough-marked land as it was when it was enclosed. It is the landscape giving you a story of lives that ended with the arrival of sheep.
Outrageous flowers swagging off balconies like bright skirts of ballgowns ...
Trees quiver in the wind,
sailing on a sea of mist
out of earshot.
Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures Whilst the landscape round it measures, Russet lawns and fallows grey, Where the nibbling flocks do stray, Mountains on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest; Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide.
In the under-wood and the over-wood there is murmur and trill this day, For every bird is in lyric mood, And the wind will have its way.
Moonlight and high wind.
Dark poplars toss, insinuate the sea.
The reeds give
way to the
wind and give
the wind away
The birch trees loom ahead like a brotherhood of ghosts.
Big streams from little fountains flow. Great oaks from little acorns grow;
Soul of fibre and heart of oak.
Feathered with hoarfrost, skeletal trees loom closer; fog shrouded arches.
How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays; And their uncessant labours see Crown'd from some single herb or tree. Whose short and narrow verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all flow'rs and all trees do close To weave the garlands of repose.
My garden is a forest ledge
Which older forest s bound;
The banks slope down to the blue lake-edge,
Then plunge to depths profound!
Is it where the flow'r of the orange blows, And the fireflies dance thro' the myrtle boughs?
Beyond, pines hold sermons.
The merriment of everything from foot-high weeds to hundred-foot oaks, rustling in the wind - grave chuckling of maples and alders, titters from groves of sapling sassafras, silly giggling in the raspberry bushes, a huge belly laugh from the oldest hollow ash tree before the freeway interchange.
The wild swan hurries hight and noises loud
With white neck peering to the evening clowd.
The weary rooks to distant woods are gone.
With lengths of tail the magpie winnows on
To neighbouring tree, and leaves the distant crow
While small birds nestle in the edge below.
His Scotch bear-leader, Mr Boswell, was a butt of the first quality.
Weave for the mighty chestnut
A tributary crown
Of autumn leaves, the brightest then
When autumn leaves are brown
Hang up his bridle on the wall,
His saddle on the tree,
Till time shall bring some racing king
Worthy to wear as he!
cosine wherry, a wooden rowboat hand
The stunted pines elude capture
in a thousand sidetracked increments.
The wind will never understand them.
Like us it is forced to go on.
Fair fresh leaves, and buds - and buds - tiny at first but swelling and working Magic until they burst and uncurled into cups of scent delicately spilling themselves over their brims and filling the garden air.
Sticks and stones build strong houses
Whats the name you Poms have for that thing where you jump up and down and hit each other with sticks?"
"Sex?"
"Gardening?"
He snapped his fingers. "Morris dancing.
Their elegant shape, showy colours, and slow, sailing mode of flight, make them very attractive objects, and their numbers are so great that they form quite a feature in the physiognomy of the forest, compensating for the scarcity of flowers.
Grey morning dulled the bay. Banks of clouds, Howth just one more bank, rolled to sea, where other Howths grumbled to greet them. Swollen spumeless tide. Heads that bobbed like floating gulls and gulls that floating bobbed like heads. Two heads. At swim, two boys.
The very uprightness of the pines and maples asserts the ancient rectitude and vigor of nature. Our lives need the relief of such a background, where the pine flourishes and the jay still screams.
Out of the corner of my eye, I say the pointed bow of a boat.
The woods were made for the hunters of dreams,
The brooks for the fishers of song;
To the hunters who hunt for the gunless game
The streams and the woods belong.
bowls of cornflakes,
Daffodils,
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty.
Here every castle had its godswood, and every godswood had its heart tree, and every heart tree its face.
Oh, Brignall banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer's queen.
A bird in the boughs sang "June,"
And "June" hummed a bee
In a Bacchic glee
As he tumbled over and over
Drunk with the honey-dew.
Shore of the lake, at the distance of rather more than a league
A row of trees far away, there on the hillside.
But what is it, a row of trees? It's just trees.
Row and the plural trees aren't things, they're names.
Books inviting us to read, on the bookshelves stand.
Piers for bridges that will lead, into Fairyland
If the wind doesn't blow...row
There was once a bundle of matches, and they were frightfully proud because of their high origin. Their family tree, that is to say the great pine tree of which they were each a little splinter, had been the giant of the forest.
Hope, politeness, the blowing of a nose, the squeak of a boot, all produce boum.
Moorcroft with a small pasture
Towering pines and hemlocks, was it? I thought, clambering over the burled knots of a fallen tree. The monstrous trunks rose so high that the lowest limbs started twenty feet above my head. Longfellow had no idea.
I don't get it. It's a bunch of trees with leaves.
CROWN
Too much rain
loosens trees.
In the hills giant oaks
fall upon their knees.
You can touch parts
you have no right to
places only birds
should fly to.
It is curious to what a degree one may become attached to a fine tree, especially when it is placed where trees are rare.
There are some young almond tress, which ordinarily look as if drawn by a childish hand. Now, as the wind sets their weak branches gibbering, they seem like shamanistic scratches on the white bone of the brittle bright night.
What we call the Irish Brogue is no sooner discovered, than it makes the deliverer, in the last degree, ridiculous and despised; and, from such a mouth, an Englishman expects nothing but bulls, blunders, and follies.
The day
Was like the buzzard on the pine.
In fierce March weather White waves break tether, And whirled together At either hand, Like weeds uplifted, The tree-trunks rifted In spars are drifted, Like foam or sand.
To the naked eye Boudicca is a haze of noxious green that lurks among fronds of seaweed looking exactly like the aftermath of a chemical spill.
I never see that prettiest thing- A cherry bough gone white with Spring- But what I think, How gay 'twould be To hang me from a flowering tree.
flaxen mane and tail. The Black Forest horses had a draft-like
A tree nowhere offers a straight line or a regular curve, but who doubts that root, trunk, boughs, and leaves embody geometry?
yard where the trees were, where the carhouse was, and
The sunlight sparkled through the wind-bent boughs of trees, dancing in an ever-shifting pattern
Woods disguised as woods alive without end, and above them birds in flight play birds in flight.
So they took the blossoms of the oak, and the blossoms of the broom, and the blossoms of the meadow-sweet, and produced from them a maiden, the fairest and most graceful that man ever saw. And they baptized her, and gave her the name of Blodeuwedd.
Tumbling-hair
picker of buttercups
violets
dandelions
And the big bullying daisies
through the field wonderful
with eyes a little sorry
Another comes
also picking flowers
Birch trees
Teach me that I am nothing
And that I am deserving of life
Alack, the night comes on, and the bleak winds
Do sorely ruffle; for many miles about
There's scarce a bush.
Puddings, my dear sir?' cried Graham.
Puddings. We trice 'em athwart the starboard gumbrils, when sailing by and large.
Why, look you, I am whipp'd and scourg'd with rods,
Nettled and stung with pismires[nettles], when I hear
Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke.
Boots, bushes, gardens, storefronts, buildings, streets, and stars. Why, she would have had to re-create the globe for them. But the best they got was fish. And the Boy loved them.
The fields are black and ploughed, and they lie like a great fan before us, with their furrows gathered in some hand beyond the sky, spreading forth from that hand, opening wide apart as they come toward us, like black pleats that sparkle with thin, green spangles.
Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal the mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne.
Drew had never before shot like he did that day, nor has he since. It was something to see. The contest had just begun when he walked up, aimed, and felled a cluster from the very top of the boughs.
Built like an oak tree, against which I could pitch my pillow and read; mornings, I could curl into the crook of your branches.
Boho to me is a first-year student who's just discovered the tie-dye shop.
That field hath eyen, and the wood hath ears.