Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Satin. 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 Satin Quotes And Sayings by 97 Authors including Mary Higgins Clark,Laura Thalassa,John Malkovich,D.h. Lawrence,Howard Gordon for you to enjoy and share.
the bed, narrow apple-green draperies at
I am a thing made of lace and blood. Swathed in silk and dripping with the dark deeds of men.
I'm a little bit of a fabric lunatic.
Rippling, rippling, rippling, like a flapping overlapping of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance, exquisite, exquisite and melting her all molten inside.
Her lips were like the soft beauty of a delicately designed silken scarf.
A superb tenor voice, like a silver trumpet muffled in silk.
Moonlight, white satin, roses. A bride.
She wore a cantilevered, augmented-breast-skimming satin dress the colour of egg-yolk. Somewhere in deepest Nebraska, a prom queen two sizes smaller than Selena was wondering where the fuck her outfit had disappeared to.
A pair of brilliantly cut cotton trousers can be more beautiful than a gorgeous silk gown ...
Tonight the sun has died like an Emperor ... great scarlet arcs of silk ... saffron ... green ... crimson ... and the blaze of Venus to remind one of the absolute and the infinite ... and along the lower rim of beauty lay the hard harsh line of the hills ...
Some of us get dipped in flat, some in satin, some in gloss ... " He turned to me. "But every once in a while, you find someone who's iridescent, and when you do, nothing will ever compare.
Dark and stately is the warm, graceful tenderness of the Sarabande
His suave loins of darkness, dark-clad and suave
No lace. No lace, Mrs. Bennett, I beg you!
Fall the deep curtains,
delicate the weave,
fair the thread.
She wore blue velvet
Bluer than velvet was the night
Softer than satin was the light
From the stars
She wore blue velvet
Bluer than velvet were her eyes
Warmer than May her tender sighs
It's curling ribbon, but you don't have to curl it. You don't have to do everything the ribbon tells you to do. Don't live your life like that.
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
With my powdered hair and jeweled fan,
I too am a rare
Pattern.
All a green willow, willow, All a green willow is my garland.
A naked blade sheathed in velvet, that was Raphael's voice.
Silke doth quench the fire in the Kitchin.
thin materials, or in conjunction with flat stitch. Twisted knot
Sashimi is velvet dust, verging on silk, or a bit of both, and the extraordinary alchemy of its gossamer essence allows it to preserve a milky density unknown even by clouds ... my cheeks recalled the effects of its profound caress.
The cunning livery of hell.
Neverwinter Wood.
Dreams drawn from the sheath.
She's chiffon and satin ribbons. I'm raw meat and razor blades.
She wore ribbons in her black hair and clung to her dreams
I like the rough feel of denim against my pussy. Even more after rough sex.
only a silkworm.
The pillow was heaven feathers in six-hundred-count cotton joy.
I loved the flash of jewels and the luster of satin. In those days women dressed.
Tangle me up like Grandma's yarn,
a furtive groove
My Precious, my Precious.
Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge,
Gold that I never see;
Lie long high snowdrifts in the hedge
That will not shower on me.
God, the Master Weaver. He stretches the yarn and intertwines the colors, the ragged twine with the velvet strings, the pains with the pleasures. Nothing escapes his reach.
Cheyenne. Created from the finest Belgian lace over ivory sateen, it fit Anna like
Ned was clad in a white linen doublet with the direwolf of Stark on the breast; his black wool cloak was fastened at the collar by his silver hand of office. Black and white and grey, all the shades of truth.
coat that she always
This shiffer-robe belongs to Hazel Motes. Do not steal it or you will be hunted down and killed.
I don't like silk underwear. They don't do the job, you know?
The dress of Virtue, in our parts, was cotton print. I had silk.
You niggas so-so like a seamstress.
the skin like velvet over steel,
A pillow for thee will I bring,Stuffed with down of angel's wing.
How many threadbare souls are to be found under silken cloaks and gowns!
Hanging softly over the black Singer sewing machine, it looked like magic, and when people saw me wearing it they were going to run up to me and say, "Marguerite, forgive us, please, we didn't know who you were," and I would answer generously, "No, you couldn't have known. Of course I forgive you.
I love the feel of good quality Italian black lace that feels delicate and really feminine.
I'd loved the satin lining of the box. I'd loved the shape, and the twilight act of rising from the dead. But no more ...
Feathers!" spluttered Sargatanas. "Feathers are for the birds, my boy. Flaking, peeling, scale-ridden wings, now that's what real beings wear. I'll tell you a secret." He said, and drew me closer. "The eternal pain at having known Paradise and lost it is priceless. I wouldn't swap it for anything.
And yet, I seemed to feel my eyes bound, too, with bands of silk. And at my throat there was a velvet collar.
I feel best in soft and natural materials such as cotton and silk. I wear collections from all designers. They all have outstanding cuts and extremely pleasant materials.
She is silk in a bed of mail-order satin. Complete and seamless, an egg of sexual muscle. My motions atop her are dislocated, frantic, my lone interstice a trans-cultural spice of encouragement I smell with my spine. As, inside it, I go, I cry out to a god whose absence I have never felt to keenly.
Ropes of silver gliding from sunny thunder into freshness.
It was black-black, so thick it drank two containers of relaxer at the salon, so full it took hours under the hooded dryer, and, when finally released from pink plastic rollers, sprang free and full, flowing down her back like a celebration. Her father called it a crown of glory.
When you with velvets mantled o'er, Defy December's tempests frore, Oh! spare one garment from your store, To clothe the poor at Christmas.
And even this heart of mine has something artificial. The dancers have sewn it into a bag of pink satin, pink satin slightly faded, like their dancing shoes.
Against these turbid turquoise skies
The light and luminous blloons
Dip and drift like satin moons,
Drift like silken butterflies
You are a fountain of the sun's light. I am a willow shadow on the ground. You make my raggedness silky.
LINEN, n. "A kind of cloth the making of which, when made of hemp, entails a great waste of hemp."
Every imperfection you have as a man makes a sound as it knifes through satin sheets.
It's your choice, butterflies or chains?
You don't think crush velvet is a good fabric for a suit, do you?
She has her gown nicely in place tonight, doesn't she? Black velvet and sparkles, not a thread left hanging. Clever girl, this city. Even the sky is her friend.
So thick with cobwebs it seemed like skeletons had decorated for a party. Raven fought her way through the webs to the far wall and ripped the velvet cloth off the mirror. She saw her own reflection staring back - long black hair with purple highlights, dark eyebrows,
She was sent to sleep under a velvety cloak of words, richly patterned and stitched with gold, straight out of a fairy tale, while they went reading on into her dreams.
The beauty of the soul is wrapped in modest fashion.
After a while, a woman can find the satin edges of grace in tragedy's wool blanket.
You, know, I always thought I wanted a knight in shining armor ... But I like my dashing rouge much better ... Angel, shiny armor just means the knight never went to battle ...
She tangled her words
like matted fishing lines
The cut, which the merman had placed on my hip, was shimmering with a soft, almost transparent, lavender glow. Like a stained-glass window, it refracted any light that touched it into lavender shimmers.
Let me just tell you this: I love polyester.
O beautiful white land,
olives and wild anemone and violet
mingled among the shale,
and purple wings
of little winter-butterflies
say, here Psyche, the soul, lies.
I shall lie folded like a saint,
Lapped in a scented linen sheet,
On a bedstead striped with bright-blue paint,
Narrow and cold and neat.
Unfortunately, most products are full of plastic and silicones and parabens and things that are really not good for us but they give that silky finish.
Like faint flowers in the diaphonous fabrics of the twenties: beautiful, trivial fabrics so flimsy they could not hope to last?
It is the horrible texture of a fabric that should be woven of ships' cables and hawsers. A Polar wind blows through it, and birds of prey hover over it.
Clothes can have a very refined vibration. An ochre robe can be extremely refined and so can a wonderful satin gown or a silk brocade coast.
My soule, poore soule thou talkes of things/ Thou knowest not what, my soule hath sliver wings,/ That mounts me up unto the highest heavens.
Sewn together patterns,
like many clashing moods,
She wears what
No others dare
Pour me another tequila, I'm going to put on your red satin dress. You put on my clothes.
All i want is a dress with puffy sleaves
First you have to spread on the rust performer, then you add a coat of protective enamel, and then you spray on the satin finish so you look good.
We never had any silk sheets in our family ...
In a blur of white satin and lace, Louisa Marie Honeycutt dove into the waiting limousine, slid across the expansive leather seat, then with a furtive look out the tinted window,
There's nothing I like more than meeting velvet clad peers while wrapped in a towel.
row of stitches.
In the time of swords and periwigs and full-skirted coats with flowered lappets - when gentlemen wore ruffles, and gold-laced waistcoats of paduasoy and taffeta - there lived a tailor in Gloucester.
speckled spiders, indolent and fat with long security, swing idly to and fro in the vibration of the bells, and never loose their hold upon their thread-spun castles in the air,
Soap shining beauty.
What a richly colored strong warm coat is woven when love is the warp and work is the woof.
Where's the lace?Lace-- Nalini Singh
The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.
In this age of fiberglass, I'm searching for a gem.
There was a lightness to the material that she loved but that also made her feel vulnerable, and she wondered which was more dangerous - the transparency of a fabric or of the soul?
...Not an elegant tapestry but a serviceable quilt.
Nylon string is still a new love and I'm not tired of it yet.
Shined, combed, brushed and gorgeous
Soft and sun-warm, see her glide