Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Plodding. 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 Plodding Quotes And Sayings by 98 Authors including Sabine Baring-Gould,Malcolm X,A Fine Frenzy,Umberto Bartolomeo,Anita Shreve for you to enjoy and share.
Mankind progresses not smoothly, as by a sliding carpet ascent, but by rugged steps broken by gaps. He halts long on one stage before taking the next. Often he remains stationary, unable to form resolution to step forward - sometimes even has turned round and retrograded.
Stumbling is not falling.
Running the race
Like a mouse in a cage
Getting nowhere but I'm trying
Forging ahead
But I'm stuck in the bed
That I made so I'm lying
...loafing in the easy chair of one's body.
Good shoveling - and then I walk
attempting to block progress.
Adventurers tend to prance about the ladder of success, fearing less the sensation of a great fall than the humility of hanging idle.
Stumbling is the fruit of haste.
The march of good fortune has backward slips: to retreat one or two paces gives wings to the jumper.
We continued our strolling, for that is exactly what it was: strolling. This was not something I did in real life, either. It was always more like "rushing," or "hustling," or "guy-walking-like-weird-Olympic-walker.
When the morning's freshness has been replaced by the weariness of midday, when the leg muscles give under the strain, the climb seems endless, and suddenly nothing will go quite as you wish it is then that you must not hesitate.
Storming, enjoying, planning, loving, cautioning,
Backing and filling, appearing and disappearing,
I tread day and night such roads.
Ploughing, and clung to their feet with a weight that pulled like desire, lying hard and unresponsive when the crops were to be shorn away. The young corn
Doth the plowman plow all day to sow? doth
You can't go on running forever ... " "And you can't go on ... " Alfie desperately searched for the right word, " ... mopedding* forever!
I stepped from plank to plank So slow and cautiously; The stars about my head I felt, About my feet the sea. I knew not but the next Would be my final inch, - This gave me that precarious gait Some call experience.
Whining and panting beneath
Many of us know nothing other than a directionless cadence, having left the footprints of our lives meandering down a road that's meandering itself.
To walk an endless road
Galloping here
Galloping there
Rollicking, frolicking, everywhere!
(Tala's favorite part...)
Wandering aimlessly, broken by my thoughts,
Which slowly sharpened daggers at my heart
Letting my experience carry me on, in a direction which appears to be forward, toward goals that I can but dimly define, as I try to understand at least the current meaning of that experience.
Swerve me? The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run. Over unsounded gorges, through the rifled hearts of mountains, under torrents' beds, unerringly I rush! Naught's an obstacle, naught's an angle to the iron way!
Men don't traipse. We... Swagger
The progress of the Way seems retreating.
Time's horses gallop down the lessening hill.
Put Down The Fork & Get Moving
stuttering over your words.
Every journey begins with a single pawstep. (warriors)
Wiggle like a stick, wobble like a duck, that's what you do when you do the Hucklebuck.
Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way.
weaving his way across
ZIGZAG, v.t. To move forward uncertainly, from side to side, as one carrying the white man's burden.
I'm a plodder, not a planner.
Idleness and timidity often despair without being overcome, and forbear attempts for fear of being defeated; and we may promote the invigoration of faint endeavors, by showing what has already been performed.
you're rowing by wordlight
Stotting is jumping upward with all four legs simultaneously. My advice: do not die until you've seen a large black poodle stotting in the snow.
Placid, adj.
Sometimes I love it when we just lie on our backs, gaze off, stay still.
To "hike" along a deep-rutted, pebbly lane in frail, silver-hued slippers with high French heels, is not an exhilirating experience.
To keep on going, you have to keep up the rhythm.
In the fields of opportunity it's plowing time again.
Hard rain falling,
on all the half-hearted
half-formed
fast walking
Half-fury, half-boredom.
Hard talking.
Half dead from exhaustion.
Hard pushed,
but the puddles keep forming
Don't fall in.
We go, in winter's biting wind, On many a short-lived winter day, With aching back but willing mind To dig and double dig the clay.
There's something about taking a plow and breaking new ground. It gives you energy.
2.07 WALK OF LIFE
Life but like a cycle that you be riding,
You will fall if you ever stop peddling,
Life not of good cards you be holding,
But those held and how you be playing.
[68] - 4
Floating to shore ... riding a low moon ... on a slow cloud.
Spur not an unbroken horse; put not your plowshare too deep into new land.
If the path you are walking today won't lead you to your desired destination, then you are STROLLING
The art of walking is at once suggestive of the dignity of man. Progressive motion alone implies power, but in almost every other instance it seems a power gained at the expense of self-possession.
Preparing for the ups and downs of life.
And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox.
For me, prose walks, poetry dances.
Comes he walking windy-ways, wandering under spruces and through canyons and across shadowy glens, hands in his pockets and head bowed as if all the weight of the world lies teetering on his slumped shoulders.
I was moving in a narrow range between busy distractedness and a pervasive sadness whose granules seemed to enter each cell, weighing it down ... I ghosted between islands of anxiety ... a fatigue that dulled my zest, decanted it. Sorrow felt like a marble coat I couldn't shed.
bein' on th' stepladder lookin, over th' wall. But I'll tell
We judge a horse not only by its pace on a racecourse, but also by its walk, nay, when resting in its stable.
Let thy mind still be bent, still plotting, where, And when, and how thy business may be done. Slackness breeds worms; but the sure traveller, Though he alights sometimes still goeth on.
coming
down
with
something
going
away
with
nothing
Approaching us through a haze of dust that overhung the road was a long column of men - a slovenly column that marched irregularly and out of step, so that it had the look of a gigantic centipede whose feet hurt.
I climb, I backtrack. I float. I ramble my way home.
Wandering and confused, lost to myself, ill-assorted, contradictory, Pausing, gazing, bending, and stopping
A stony road, hard on the feet. I would beg for us to sit down but you discouraged it, knowing that sitting was fatal, because of the willpower required to get up again.
I feel it is my duty to plod on, while daylight shall last ...
Often you shall think your road impassable, sombre and companionless. Have will and plod along; and round each curve you shall find a new companion.
Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on.
lilting cadence,
Pully, hauly, tug with a will; the gods wiggle waggle, but the sky stands still.
Running to stand still
-Lena
Racing down the kingsroad, as if to outrun his doubts.
lurches forward like a charging rhino,
I weave the papers through the branches, in a long loop. Up and down, my knees bending. My arms above my head, like the girls I saw once in a painting in a cave. There is a rhythm to this, a keeping of time. I wonder if I'm dancing.
The path is revealed in the treading.
Her silent course advance With inoffensive pace, that spinning sleeps On her soft axle.
The autumn leaves blew over the moonlit pavement in such a way as to make the girl who was moving there seem fixed to a sliding walk, letting the motion of the wind and the leaves carry her forward. [ ... ] The trees overhead made a great sound of letting down their dry rain.
Striving is stealing our joy, our moments.
Moving ahead, so life won't pass me by.
Always Moving Forward
I feel like I've been sliding all day.
Plans, endless walks without
In the almost film-like flitting-by of modern life, a man needs something to tell him, from time to time, that he is still himself, and nothing can give him this assurance in so comforting a manner as the "four feet trotting behind".
Anything less than such proactivity is a cheap imitation of the life you were meant to live. It's stalling.
As he made his way, he ploughed his bare feet through the mud as a child, head bowed as a child, interested as a child neither in where he was going nor in what might happen next but only in the furrow his foot opened that vanished a moment later.
All in the golden afternoon Full leisurely we glide; For both our oars, with little skill, By little arms are plied, While little hands make vain pretence Our wanderings to guide.
And there I was, trudging through the same old nowhere, day after day, always wanting to slow down, to sit down, to lie down, with my father walking on ahead, no doubt a little desperate, as he had every right to be.
The wheel weaves as the wheel wills
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic
shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.
Speed is the cushion of sloppiness.
With their ship, the Horse, They ply the sea of grass, They stalk the walking mountains, With stones they make their beds.
You skip merrily along,
A running machine, that glides over mud, crud and goop.
He that by the Plough would thrive, Himself must either hold or drive.
Poetry is talking on tiptoe.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
My nails clawed against the smooth tiles as I pushed up onto my hands and knees. I rose unsteadily to my feet.
Speed is my ally. Breathe. In and out. Focus. Time is my power.
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.
An age-old patter that seemed like chaos but was not ...
You always say 'I'll quit when I start to slide', and then one morning you wake up and realize you've done slid.
Ducking, weaving, bouncing away from the knockout blow which must inevitably come.
Do not confuse motion and progress. A rocking horse keeps
moving but does not make any progress.
Under his spurning feet, the road
Like an arrowly alpine river flowed
And the landscape sped away behind
Like an ocean flying before the wind ...