Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Embroid'ry. 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 Embroid'ry Quotes And Sayings by 91 Authors including Truth Devour,Rumi,Rudyard Kipling,Alexander Pope,Sherwood Smith for you to enjoy and share.
You are imprinted in and on the fabric of my heart.
What does this patch-sewing mean you ask? Eating and drinking. The heavy cloak of the body is always getting torn. You patch it with food and other ego-satisfactions.
'E's all'ot sand an' ginger when alive, An'e's generally shammin' when'e's dead.
Thy voice I seem in ev'ry hymn to hear, with ev'ry bead I drop too soft a tear ...
A horse blanket, Mel?
I remembered what I was wearing. 'It tore in half when Hrani tried washing it. She was going to mend it. This piece was too small for a horse, but it was just right for me.'
Bran laughed a little unsteadly. 'Mel. A horse blanket.
Unzip my body, take my heart out
Life! What Inscrutable Card Shall Ye Throw Next Upon the Soft Felt of Our Days?
As traditions of mourning wane, women's role as designated mourners has also vanished. In consequence, the woman elegist must summon her own resources as an artist.
What tender threads do life and death hang
This is what art is all about. It is weaving fabric from the feathers you have plucked from your own breast. But no one must ever see the process - only the finished bolt of goods. They must never suspect that that crimson thread running through the pattern is blood.
Give me your hand
out of the depths
sown by your sorrows.
Joy and woe are woven fine.
I lost one illusion last night. I thought I had no heart. I find I have, and a heart doesn't suit me, Windermere. Somehow it doesn't go with modern dress. It makes one look old. And it spoils one's career at critical moments.
...Not an elegant tapestry but a serviceable quilt.
A mark on one arm like the one I bore. Here, in this time, the mark of sorcery, the mark of a magus. The small, homely scar of a smallpox vaccination.
My Heart
My heart has so many scars
you could read it like braille.
Be still my non-beating heart.
Each arm is intertwined into a story, the story of my life.
The disappointments that I had.
The life lessons learned.
And the pure soul wrenching love that I only dream to find one day.
What have you to do with hearts, except for dissection?
Why does your sword so drip with blood, Edward, Edward? Why does your sword so drip with blood? And why so sad are ye?
Your body is woven
from the light of heaven.
Are you aware
that its purity and swiftness
is the envy of angels
and its courage
keeps even devils away.
That was the strength of Ellysetta's weave. Bright, unyielding,indefatigable love. Love that did not know surrender. Love that did not understand limitations or even basic self-preservation. Love that would batter itself to death before giving in to defeat.
skintight layer of clothing that extends from my feet to my neck that's supposed to help improve my hypertrophic scarring. The Iron Maiden describes hypertrophic scarring as skin that exhibits the three Rs of being red,
Hearts are connected by the slenderest of threads.
Scraps of love
torn and tattered
faded, scattered
trashed
threads of hope
frayed and tangled
broken, mangled
dashed
backing, buttons
yarn and batting
quilted tenderly
wrapped up in
this warm repair
my patchwork family
I knit the afternoon away. I knit reasons for Elijah to come back. I knit apologies for Emma. I knit angry knots and slipped stitches for every mistake I ever made, and I knit wet, swollen stitches that look awful. I knit the sun down.
What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted! Thrice is he arm'd, that hath his quarrel just ...
Where does such tenderness come from
And what do I do with it, you, sly,
Adolescent, vagabond singer,
Whose lashes couldn't be longer?
row of stitches.
To fine folkes a little ill finely wrapt.
Struggling in my father's hands,
Striving against my swaddling bands,
Bound and weary, I thought best
To sulk upon my mother's breast.
Like a snake, my heart
has shed its skin.
I hold it here in my hand,
full of honey and wounds.
- New Heart
The Sewing Machine Charm
To A Life Bound by Family, The Thread That Ties Us All Together
Overcome the Empyrean; hurl
Heaven and Earth out of their places,
That in the same calamity
Brother and brother, friend and friend,
Family and family,
City and city may contend.
Every time I read Erin Belieu work I'm pierced in that wonderful way poetry can.
Throb thine with Nature's throbbing breast.
Sleep easy, Ember.
My face is muffled in my mother's clothing. Her rhinestones injure me. See: my feet are going. Fish flee the forefinger of my aunt. The sun streams over the geraniums. What has this to do with what I feel, with what I am.
When you quilting up a life, you sometimes got to start with any piece you can get your hands on.
Rouge of my heart, intertwined with double-hued destiny,
Thread of my thoughts, constant and rubicund legacy,
Filament of my future, endeared unto my expectation,
Cord of my emotion, seared with eternal elation.
I brush my hair,
waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard,
for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart
and were screwed together. They will knit.
And the other corpse, the fractured heart,
I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
LINEN, n. "A kind of cloth the making of which, when made of hemp, entails a great waste of hemp."
Won't let the creeping ivy
Won't let the nervous bury me
Our veins are thin
Our rivers poisoned
We want the sweet meat
We want the young blood
Aethe, near my heart.
Without vanity, the ribbon.
Without duty, the wind.
Without blood, the victory.
soul it shaped. Laurel
This love is thickly plaited.
Separation
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.
The elegy does the work of mourning; it allows us to experience mortality. It turns loss into remembrance, and it delivers an inheritance.
When I sew you up ...
Don't let me,
Stop bleeding,
Tiny stitches that you placed into my skin,
Won't let me go,
And they're ruining the mood.
I am my own tapestry, then, made as I could for myself. Some holes in my fabric have been made by others, some torn by chance. Missing threads in the weave represent all those I have loved who died so long before me
My lifeless body - a boat with sunken anchors, without leader on board, without harbor, without country, only my moist sails afloat in that tremendous ocean of my tears ,,,,
Bow, stubborn knees, and, heart with strings of steel,
Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe.
All many be well.
Another brittle hug from Adele - it was like being embraced by a Ryvita
A weathered skeleton
in windy fields of memory,
piercing like a knife.
Emulation is grief arising from seeing one's self, exceeded or excelled by his concurrent, together with hope to equal or exceed him in time to come, by his own ability. But envy is the same grief joined with pleasure conceived in the imagination of some ill-fortune that may befall him.
Deep in my heart subsides the infrequent word, And there dies slowly throbbing like a wounded bird.
As slippery as smooth grapes, words exploding in the light like dormant seeds waiting in the vaults of vocabulary, alive again, and giving life: once again the heart distills them.
I wore his blood for clothing, on my legs and thighs and hands: a dry, stiff, brown garment with no warmth in it.
I sat on cushioned otter-skin:
My word was law from Ith to Emain,
And shook at Invar Amargin
The hearts of the world-troubling seamen,
And drove tumult and war away ...
A vast deal of human sympathy runs along the electric line of needlework, stretching from the throne to the wicker chair of the humble seamstress.
You are loved with an everlasting love. And underneath are the everlasting arms.
I can't bring myself to open my eyes. I am an ember, glowing from the inside out. The dark and silent room keeps everything else at bay, every sensation, except the two of us, Nick and Lily, who have just made love.
Put aside your mantles of mourning, join all your tears until you make them metal: for
I looked briefly up from my notes. I was surrounded by hearts, sectioned and preserved. Hearts with holes. Hearts with leaking valves or thickened walls. Hearts with narrow or transposed aortas. I closed my eyes.
...there was something in the texture of the weave that felt happy: the
echo of a memory so far down in his soul it was all emotion, a
burst of colour and warmth, adrift from time and place.
My soul is wrapped in harsh repose, Midnight descends in raven-colored clothes, But soft ... behold! A sunlight beam Butting a swath of glimmering gleam. My heart expands, 'tis grown a bulge in it, Inspired by your beauty ... Effulgent.
What a richly colored strong warm coat is woven when love is the warp and work is the woof.
Be still my heart.
The world hangs like a heart-shaped locket around my neck.
Lady, you bereft me of all words/
My blood speaks to you in my veins.
Every seam, every lace, every bead has been painstakingly, with love, corrected, perfected and mastered,
What thing, in honor, had my father lost,
That need to be revived and breathed in me?
Wrinkles are engraved smiles.
Soul of fibre and heart of oak.
All the rare and royal names
Wormy sheepskin yet retains
I' a word that's let you Die
I cried so hard I forgot who I was. Someone touched my arm. What's an arm.
Are you rage, wrapped in skin, tight like leather dried in the desert sun?
From: "The Comfort of Black
My tongue remembers your wounded flavor.
The vein in my neck
adores you. A sword
stands up between my hips,
my hidden fleece sends forth its scent of human oil.
Nails on skin, teeth on lips, and hearts on sleeves, we tumble over the edge, together.
I wear my heart on my sleeve. I wear my liver on my pant leg.
Why did I feel warmed by imperfections, discomfort, and patina?
Because intense living leaves scars, and I could not find such scars anywhere in America. Inner scars, softened, human wear and tear.
The poetry of painted collarbones and scratched bleeding knees.
Concurring hands divide
flax for damask
that when bleached by Irish weather
has the silvered chamois-leather
water-tightness of a
skin.
I want to cover my heart with armor
I carry Sorrow, a grey
bird, sluggish, in my chest.
Pluck my heart
From my flesh
And eat it.....
Because of some defect in my motor skill, I can never COMPLETELY wrap [gifts] ... If I had been an ancient Egyptian in the field of mummies, the lower half of the Pharaoh's body would be covered only by scotch tape.
He needs a looser association. He needs something that implies a man who wants the ice shard to remain in his chest, who's learned to love the sensation of being pierced.
The pearl on my beloved's neck, Afflicted sore the oyster!
I am a thing made of lace and blood. Swathed in silk and dripping with the dark deeds of men.
the skin like velvet over steel,
To become romantic artists, we must pierce the armor that hides our hearts, and the piercing is not comfortable.
Love pull your sore ribs in. I will pull your tangles out.
Silks, velvets, calicoes, and the whole lexicon of female fopperies.
Two souls, alas, are housed within my breast,
And each will wrestle for the mastery there.
Life for all its gains
pierces in ways that leave scars,
where I've bled, I've lived
Do you come to art to be comforted, or do you come to art to be re-skinned?
Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.
I'll rise like an ember in your name.