Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Marsh. 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 Marsh Quotes And Sayings by 96 Authors including Kate Atkinson,William Cobbett,Stephen Vincent Benet,Mary Shelley,Winston Graham for you to enjoy and share.
Shropshire, the fatlands of Gloucestershire,
All Middlesex is ugly, notwithstanding the millions upon millionswhichit iscontinuallysucking up fromtherestof the kingdom.
Broad-streeted Richmond ... The trees in the streets are old trees used to living with people, Family trees that remember your grandfather's name.
Shore of the lake, at the distance of rather more than a league
Mellingey Stream
For one short wet month early in the next year the drought lifted. Spring tipped in like green well water frothing at the hedges bubbling at the roadside splashing from the cottage roof in garlands of ivy and stringflower
I didn't expect that for every shell on the coast there's a tree in the midlands.
Frederick Mitchell-Hedges,
light. "I'll ring Malcolm's mum's croft and have him
Many a soul will turn back to accustomed marshlands of defeat rather than brave the fogs of frustration; but the mountain peaks rise high above the rain and gloom.
Dead fields under a November sky, scattered rose petals brown and turning up at the edges, empty pools scummed with algae, rot, decomposition, dust ...
of the afternoon Mr. Fitz-Wattle----
Float beyond the world of trees. Out into the whispering breeze, past the rushes, past the weeds, past the marsh's waving reeds.
I'm Barrow. Shade Barrow. And you better not get me killed.
here you are in Bath, andBath-- Jane Austen
What the bloody hell are you, Ms. Lane?
Eradication of this unquenchable shrub [tamarisk] will save water, lower salinity levels and create a more congenial habitat for the Southwest Willow Flycatcher and a number of other riparian species.
Years ago I had a house in Sussex, it was like Arcadia, with an old Victorian bridge, a pond and the Downs.
I am a Norfolk man and Glory in being so.
Gilly Gilleshpee
Darkening sea full of stirred silt and clouds of minute
Smile for the camera, pretty little Sydney Tar Ponds.
The muddy rivers of spring
Are snarling
Under the muddy skies.
The mind is muddy.
The Brangwens had lived for generations on the Marsh Farm, in the meadows where the Erewash twisted sluggishly through alder trees, separating Derbyshire from Nottinghamshire.
Waterside was poor. Hillside was rich. Waterside stank. Hillside was clean. Waterside had thieves. Hillside had bankers -I'm sorry, burglars.
Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!
Waterfront little shanties like this one had
In the beginning there were the swamp, the hoe - and Jussi.
What sort of water is that?" said Holtzclaw. "The wet kind," said Ms. Rathbun.
There were a number of early water-powered mills around Green Hill. Duncan Smith, Berry McDonald, Thomas Ross, Isham Richardson, and Enoch Raleigh Kennedy had gristmills on Cow Pen Creek.
Mud, raised by hurricanes, wells up in the noblest and purest of hearts.
And at my feet the pale green Thames
Lies like a rod of rippled jade.
Who is there who can make muddy waters clear? But if allowed to remain still, it will gradually clear itself.
I come from the Lynchs of Sligo. You know, I went there, but I looked in the phone book and there are nine million Lynches in Sligo.
Don't disrespect the sword marshmallow.
But mash whiskey took some of the dry away and made Augustus feel nicely misty inside - foggy and cool as a morning in the Tennessee hills. He seldom got downright drunk, but he did enjoy feeling misty along about sundown,
At the window he sits and looks out, musing on the river, a little brown hen duck paddling upstream among the windwaves close to the far bank. What he has understood lies behind him like a road in the woods. He is a wilderness looking out at the wild.
Wet, wet, the interior of the island, they said, bog and marsh, rivers and chains of ponds alive with metal-throated birds. The ships scraped on around the points. And the lookout saw shapes of caribou folding into fog.
Burned over water.
Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep.
The water in the drains below the cobbles muttered.
By cool Siloam's shady rill How sweet the lily grows!
As on many mornings in Marin, there is this sly strip of fog - water in it's most mystical incarnation - slithering over, around, and through the hills, making everything look ancient and unsolved.
Marshalsea and all its blighted fruits. They went quietly down into the roaring streets, inseparable and blessed; and as they passed along in sunshine and shade, the noisy and the eager, and the arrogant and the froward and the vain, fretted
There was something very fishy about Riley Bay.
What is it ye have there, Murtagh?
A lake. A prayer. It's so lovely to be lovely in Private -Finch
With spots of sunny openings, and with nooks To lie and read in, sloping into brooks.
There twice a day the Severn fills; The salt sea-water passes by, And hushes half the babbling Wye, And makes a silence in the hills.
sand-bar, sorrowful
Keep your spirits up, hope for the best, and with a tremendous slice of luck you may come out one day and see the Long Marshes lying below you,
Some sunny empty grass-grown court lost in the heart of the labyrinthine pile.
Its whole expanse was covered with tall, juicy grass, and when the wind blew, great waves passed over it with a sound like troubled water. (The Grassy Ocean)
The pale water which goes away along paths of silence.
A springful of larks in a rolling Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling Blackbirds and the sun of October Summery On the hill's shoulder.
I had never liked, even feared a little, this wild reach of marsh and mud flats where everything seemed turned away from the land, looking off desperately toward the horizon as if in mute search for a sign of rescue.
In the river meadows, alders, brambles and wild vines formed a magical jungle, dappled with shimmering, greenish light and spangled with twirling forest particles. Marshy pools lay sparkling among the elderberries and leaning beeches.
Move with a spring & vegetable swiftness,
Seed-case & burr & tremulous grasses, a grove - vocal in the
wind -
There is peace in the swamp, though the quiet is Death
Surely among a rich man's flowering lawns,
Amid the rustle of his planted hills,
Life overflows without ambitious pains;
And rains down life until the basin spills,
And mounts more dizzy high the more it rains
As though to choose whatever shape it wills ...
Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow!
But you want a placid pond, a glassy surface to reflect your own casual desires and nothing more. You will never fathom the depths of my savage ocean.
Yes, Dan'l Webster's dead - or, at least, they buried him. But every time there's a thunderstorm around Marshfield, they say you can hear his rolling voice in the hollows of the sky.
O lovely eyes of azure, Clear as the waters of a brook that run Limpid and laughing in the summer sun!
Some genius of the South
With blood-hot eyes and cane-lipped scented mouth,
Surprised in making folk-songs from soul sounds.
marked more by the way the grass
The Missouri is, perhaps, different in appearance and character from all other rivers in the world; there is a terror in its manner which is sensibly felt, the moment we enter its muddy waters from the Mississippi.
Southly thru shrubby heath we tromped now till we got to wideway. Wideway I'd heard o' from storymen an' here it was, an open, long, flat o' roadstone. SAplin's'n'bush was musclin' up but wondersome'n'wild was that windy space.
The Mayor of Murslaugh was a jolly, ebullient man of the sort who, in a well-ordered world, would be called Fezziwig. That his name was Brown was a powerful indictment on the sorry state of things.
Irish gardens beat all for horror. With 19 gardeners, Lord Talbot of Malahide has produced an affair exactly like a suburban golf course.
We'll make a bunker hill of it.
I'd rather live at the bottom of a well than leave Avonlea.
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 incessant seethe of grasses
I grew up in a place called Malahide, which is by the water and is beautifully quiet, leafy, and part serene.
He screamed. Mmm?' inquired the gentleman. I ... I would never presume to interrupt you, sir. But the ground appears to be swallowing me up.' It is a bog,' said the gentleman, helpfully. It is certainly a most terrifying substance.
Lake quiets, tired of my lies.
on the outskirts of Johnson
This couldn't be just a lake. No real water was ever blue like that. A light breeze stirred the pin-cherry tree beside the window, ruffled the feathers of a fat sea gull promenading on the pink rocks below. The breeze was full of evergreen spice.
South.
'But no name?,
'No, Guido. But I'll keep
The sand swallows burst out of their scupper holes in the bluffs and out over the transparent drown of the water, back again to the white, to the brown, to the black, from moving to stock-still sand waves and water-worked woods and roots that hugged and twisted in the sun.
Merry a mind is
of a weeping willow
roots raising concrete
be in
fit out
all abstract.
Good God, with a bounty
Look down on Marion County,
For the soil is so pore, and so awful rooty, too,
I don't know what to God the pore folks gonna do.
Like most Michigan natives, Ferguson had a vague knowledge of a thing called barbecue, but had never actually eaten any. He was, however, intimately familiar with whiskey.
A sort of botanical glory-hole
Her hair was copper-red, like the grass of the shore on which the spring floods leave their rust; but her eyes were dark, like the pools among the marshes, drawing the beholder down into their depths, and their surface was still as bog-water.
is the answer none of the above
crouched in a hole like a mud-streaked fugitive
everyday a different version of
pouring it away like a water through a sieve
The purple haze of the wych elms; the blue flash of a kingfisher's wings; the statuesque rightness of the milch cows in that green place chomping on the rich flood-grass.
Hayes. Peter Hayes.
Stops at the end of the road collected Clyde Lidgards like dams collected silt.
Moriston House is really quite beautiful. No wonder everyone wants to be murdered here.
--Roberta "Bobbie" Aldridge
What idiocy, to racing into this story and its labyrinths, sprinting away from our happiness among the fresh spring grasses by the oak.
Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks In Vallombrosa, where th' Etrurian shades High over-arch'd imbower.
I couldn't have made a better shot, if I had been one of those detectives who see a chap walking along the street and deduce that he is a retired manufacturer of poppet valves named Robinson with rheumatism in one arm, living at Clapham.
Raven: The Reverend Mr Larynx has been called off on duty, to marry or bury (I don't know which) some unfortunate person or persons, at Claydyke: ...
Hawthorn, white and odorous with blossom, framing the quiet fields, and swaying flowers and grasses, and the hum of bees.
Macadam into shallow gullies on either side of the
How very wet this water is.
GLOUCESTER: Yet so much is my poverty of spirit, So mighty and so many my defects, As I had rather hide me from my greatness, Being a bark to brook no mighty sea, Than in my greatness covet to be hid, And in the vapour of my glory smother'd. But God be thanked ...
My dream of happiness: a quiet spot by the Jamaican seashore ... hearing the wind sob with the beauty and the tragedy of everything. Sitting under an almond tree, with the leaf spread over me like an umbrella.