Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Doorstep. 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 Doorstep Quotes And Sayings by 98 Authors including Katie Mcgarry,Lia Habel,Emily Bronte,Jamie Mcguire,W. H. Auden for you to enjoy and share.
Home. I have no idea what that word really means.
You have got to be kidding. Where'd they find it?"
"I like to think it was Santa finally coming through on years of passionate but ignored childhood letters.
I have just returned from a visit to my landlord - the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with.
Abby took the box, and then tugged on my hand until we were in the entryway. It smelled like a combination of cleaner, candles, and kids. It smelled like home.
And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart.
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?
The Hemlock Tearoom and Stationery
A letter today from a Mrs Gladys Freeman, 45 Sebastopol Terrace, Blackpool. 'Sir, reference the room you had here during the party conference season. Well, we know what it is. We know who done it. But for heaven's sake tell us where it is!
The self-addressed stamped envelope. The representation of everything that was wrong with the old publishing industry.
Door. Fucker hit me with the bedroom door!
An empty envelope that is sealed contains a secret.
A letter is an unannounced visit, the postman the agent of rude surprises. One ought to reserve an hour a week for receiving letters and afterwards take a bath.
Where was I? in remarking that me is the envelopes and not nearly so much so, the often foolish letters inside.
Hang o'er the Box, and hover round the Ring. Think what an equipage thou hast in Air, 45 And view with scorn two Pages and a Chair.
Often thought that you had just the kind of commonplace gifts that a host of commonplace people want to find at their service. An old servant of mine who lives in Mortimer Street
Your locker door. But due to my severe allergic reaction to your coat, all I could muster was a weak and very hoarse whisper that you apparently didn't hear.
THROUGH THE TRAPDOOR I
My home is humble and unattractive to strangers, but to me it contains what I shall find nowhere else in the world - the ... affection which brothers and sisters feel for each other.
I was lured into a navvy's cottage tonight!" - Dear Popsy: Collected Postcards of a Private Schoolboy to his Father.
our family's house.
Delivered from the galling yoke of time.
his nose in the door and
Payday at my house is like the Academy Awards. My wife says: May I have the envelope please.
For the enemy to be recognized and feared, he has to be in your home or on your doorstep.
The e-mail lands like a mortar in the Hum suzerainty.
The envelope was covered with mud and unstamped. It bore the words "To be handed to M. le Vicomte Raoul de Chagny," with the address in pencil. It must have been flung out in the hope that a passer-by would pick up the note and deliver it, which was what happened.
It's a battered old suitcase to a hotel someplace, and a wound that will never heal. No prima donna, the perfume is on an old shirt that is stained with blood and whiskey. Goodnight to the street sweepers, the night watchmen flame keepers and goodnight, Matilda, too.
No real adventure ever started by waiting patiently by a doorstep.
The bell seemed to have set off an
alarm in my brain, and I glimpsed at the mysterious envelope on my desk.
There was another item I should've gotten from my single-shoe salesman.
Searching for the scent
of the early plum,
I found it by the eaves
Of a proud storehouse.
'You've got mail!' exclaims the cheery automaton at America Online. The flag on the mailbox icon waves invitingly on my computer screen. For a second, I'm 10 years old again, waiting for the postman's whistle to slice the stillness of an Australian afternoon.
Once again, we shall have to operate not only outside the box, but outside the room containing the box.
This was your mother's door. She was loyal, brilliant, beautiful, and she was my friend. I will treasure her memory forever.
The world would see the beauty of the packaging, but only I knew the man inside it and how precious he was. His intimate smiles and his deep husky laugh, the gentleness of his touch and the ferocity of his passion were all reserved for me.
Direct mail - it falls out of every magazine you open these days
If I show up on your doorstep don't worry I'm just there to party.
When I was a kid, I used to deliver the newspaper all over town, cramming papers between screen doors and into mailboxes and under doormats.
There is no self. There is nobody home. No forwarding address, no zip code. Address unknown.
by the five corners of my beard!
Our own front door can be a wonderful thing, or a sight we dread; rarely is it only a door.
...how gracious seem the small gifts that may come - a patch of sunlight on a cold floor, an unexpected gesture of friendship, the fragrant steam of hot tea.
home and there it sits on the counter, going sour.
A postcard and I'm pining for New England. . .
The best presents don't come in boxes.
Then someone started pounding on the door. And not a little "Hey, what's up?" pound. Like there was a big sale on door pounds down at the Pound Outlet. Buy one, get one free at Pounds-n-Stuff.
Being the Journal of Abby Normal
The Package is the Product, onomatopoeticized
My delivery just got me buzzin like the pizza man
I tapped on the door, with all the power of a farting flea.
of tea beside my plate, Phoebe deposited
In proportion as our inward life fails, we go more constantly and desperately to the post office. You may depend on it, that the poor fellow who walks away with the greatest number of letters, proud of his extensive correspondence, has not heard from himself this long while.
The lintel low enough to keep out pomp and pride; The threshold high enough to turn deceit aside; The doorband strong enough from robbers to defend; This door will open at a touch to welcome every friend.
How easy it is to dismiss the outer packaging without an inkling that one is thereby missing the precious beauty within.
Warm familiar scents drift softly from the oven,
And imprint forever upon our hearts
That this is home
and that we are loved.
A token of the boy with the bread. A
I prefer delivery and solitude.
into the kitchen and spotted
273 Page Street,
Dear Daddy, Do you observe the postmark?
How sweet and gracious, even in common speech, Is that fine sense which men call Courtesy! Wholesome as air and genial as the light, Welcome in every clime as breath of flowers, It transmutes aliens into trusting friends, And gives its owner passport round the globe.
Other writers tell me about these bushel baskets delivered at the front door. If I've gotten 50 letters over the last 18 years, I'd be surprised.
When you greeted me with a gun on your doorstep, it's nice to know you meant it.
The Box, shuck-face, the Box!
And what do you keep in such a pretty little box, sir? Snuff?'
Oh, no! It is a great treasure of mine that I wish Lady Pole to wear tonight!' He opened the box and showed Stephen a small, white finger.
When narratives fracture, when words fail, I take consolation from the part of my life that always works: the stationery order. The mail-order stationery people supply every need from royal blue Quink to a dazzling variety of portable hard drives.
I was surprised just now at seeing a cobweb around a knocker; for it was not on the door of heaven.
Wherever I have knocked, a door has opened. Wherever I have wandered, a path has appeared.
Now I have to have the biggest P.O. box in the entire post office to get all the manuscripts coming in.
Milena found Cilia outside, holding her bamboo box. Milena hugged her. 'I'm sorry about your shins,' she said. Milena lifted the lid of the box, and saw it, the precious paper, ruled in staves. People were generous. Milena had never believed that.
Sometimes I get mail for people who lived in my home before I did, and sometimes my own body seems like a home through which successive people have passed like tenants, leaving behind memories, habits, scars, skills, and other souvenirs.
Strangers will show you the way
But a true friend will escort you,
to your destination.
1st November, 2006
The way is an ill neighbour.
As I pressed the doorbell button it popped off the wall and hung by two colored cords. Obviously it didn't work, so I knocked.
The post office has a great charm at one point of our lives. When you have lived to my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth going through the rain for.
Words are only postage stamps delivering the object for you to unwrap
Although it may be unused, the front door continues to appeal to our sense arrival. Call it the ceremony of coming home.
marketplace, he had already seen it when it was
I leave you, home,
when I'm ripped from the doorstep
by commerce or fate. Then I submit
to the awful subway of the world ...
Perching on a corner of the couch between the boxes, I tore out a small piece of my heart and buried it there between them to await its own restoration of all things, in the end of every good-bye ever spoken.
Newspapers appeared like oracles on your doorstep- gilded fragments of anonymous love.
If the postman is saying hello to you, then I feel like, wow, thats something special.
Little boxes on the hillside, Little boxes made of ticky-tacky, Little boxes on the hillside, Little boxes all the same.
so mom got the postcard today
Street towards Covent Garden. There was
go outside the box!
One of the sweetest things in life: a letter from a friend.
Everyday I reach to a place where there is my name on the door. It's been a while, didn't reach my home.
Whose house is that, Constable?
You beat your Pate, and fancy Wit will come: Knock as you please, there's no body at home.
Don't be ungrateful. Just open it.
Lavender's my favorite scent, after White-Out and bacon rind. I sat down on the steps, not sure where to go next.
A July afternoon yawned.
Mirage puddles'd shimmered on the Welland road as I rode here.
I could've gone to sleep on the baked doorstep.
Little naked ants.
Jungle post arrives. Two biscuits for me. A poem and a pressed flower from Comrade Narmada. A lovely letter from Maase. (Who is she? Will I ever know?) Comrade
corner, an empty shell that is merely
A handwritten, personal letter has become a genuine modern-day luxury, like a child's pony ride.
I take my metal canister of tea off the shelf. It is my own mixture of dried lavender blossoms and lemon balm, harvested from my garden and hung in the storeroom to dry. Weed helped me hang these stalks, I think. His hands touched these tender leaves, just as they touch me.
A box where she was expected to be sweet and sensitive (but not oversensitive); a box for young and pretty girls who were not as bright or powerful as their boyfriends. A box for people who were not forces to be reckoned with.
The same bourgeois magic everywhere the mail train sets you down.
I'm not really the scented envelope kid of girl, preferring instead to send yellow Jiffy-lite mailers packed with whatever song is on my mind.
The reason there's a question mark on my front door is just in case I forget my address.
her bedroom and picked up
My motto is strong packaging, clear addressing.
Postal inspectors have been given advanced warning that Publishers Clearinghouse is sending packets of laundry detergent that could be mistaken for anthrax. Oh, good timing. What genius came up with this promotion? What's next - a ticking alarm clock? Let's put that in a box.