Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Sloughing. 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 Sloughing Quotes And Sayings by 97 Authors including Bram Stoker,Robert Lowell,John Townsend Trowbridge,Ovid,Anita Shreve for you to enjoy and share.

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Stepping forth to replenish it, for now the snow came in flying sweeps
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Wallowing in this bloody sty,
I cast for fish that pleased my eye
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On turf and curb and bower-roof
The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof;
It paves with pearl the garden-walk;
And lovingly around the tatter'd stalk
And snivering stem its magic weaves
A mantle fair as lily-leaves.
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By constant dripping, water hollows stone,
A signet-ring from use alone grows thin,
And the curved plowshare by soft earth is worn.
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Good shoveling - and then I walk
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The dusk runs down the lane driven like hail;
Far off a precise whistle is escheat
To the dark; and then the towering weak and pale ...
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Just as a dancer, turning and turning, may fill the dusty light with the soft swirl of her flying skirts, our weeping willow
now old and broken , creaking in the breeze
turns slowly, slowly in the winter sun, sweeping the rusty roof of the barn with the pale blue lacework of her shadow.
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All that St. Kilda's gloss, that walk through old oak doors like you belong, effortless: I wanted that. I wanted to lick it off my banged-up fists along with my enemy's blood. This
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The sky drops silver threads of sleet.
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London, ... like a bowl of viscid human fluid, boils sullenly over the rim of its encircling hills and slops messily into the home counties.
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Stops at the end of the road collected Clyde Lidgards like dams collected silt.
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Brimming. That's what it is, I want to get to a place where my sentences enact brimming.
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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.
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Bright was the summer's noon when quickening steps
Followed each other till a dreary moor
Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top
Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge,
I overlooked the bed of Windermere,
Like a vast river, stretching in the sun.
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I grew up in Ditchling. It was an idyllic village at the foot of the South Downs. In those days, the village was full of artists and sculptors.
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It's a dimissive term to say the Irish team are plucky because it rings back to the old days when we went out and gave it a lash, set our hair on fire and ran after the opposition for 20 minutes and, if they survived that, they beat us by 50 points.
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Irish tory employers hid[e] their sweatshops behind orange flags, and Irish home rule landlords us[e] the green sunburst of Erin to cloak their rack-renting in the festering slums of our Irish towns.
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Jolly boating weather,
And a hay harvest breeze,
Blade on the feather,
Shade off the trees.
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To Meath of the pastures,
From wet hills by the sea,
Through Leitrim and Longford,
Go my cattle and me.
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Blowing,Blowing
The gray slabs
Will lose you
the winds will flick you away
In a whiff
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Crafting, as the title suggests,
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Sitting in an English garden waiting for the sun, and if the sun don't come, we'll be standing in the English rain.
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Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures Whilst the landscape round it measures, Russet lawns and fallows grey, Where the nibbling flocks do stray, Mountains on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest; Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide.
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Rivers of wrinkles flowing down from the corners of this eyes and mouth.
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Doth the plowman plow all day to sow? doth
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woollyheads and silvergrays, and am unable to understand
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When you put your hand to the plow, you can't put it down until you get to the end of the row.
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I was brought up in industrial south Lancashire, down the cobbled road from where LS Lowry (1887-1976) lived and painted.
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As a Midlander and a big walker, I'd always loved ridge and furrow fields, the plough-marked land as it was when it was enclosed. It is the landscape giving you a story of lives that ended with the arrival of sheep.
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How still the morning of the hallow'd day! Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song.
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The itch of scribbling.
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Dust webbed the window and the showtrays. Dust darkened the toiling fingers with their vulture nails. Dust slept on dull coils of bronze and silver, lozenges of cinnabar, on rubies, leprous and winedark stones.
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I'll be contacting Webster tomorrow. My suggestion will be absofuckingmazing.
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What scrunched under our overshoes as we trudged through the stubble of the grainfield was the nasty mix of moistureless snow and windblown dirt that we called snirt.
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Tilling the fertile soil of man's vanity.
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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!
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He says tools but somebody will mention the cutting edges of things and one will see billhook, scythe, fauchard, debris, wood chips and sketches all entangled like words in summertime, when crickets and corn, lives and vines, sunflowers and stormy hours touch and quench one another.
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The adjective sleazy must have acquired its present-day meaning to conform to its sound shape. A word cannot exist in slums, surrounded by slatterns and sluts, and preserve its purity amid all this slime.
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throwing stones through the windows of the Riddle House. They
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Sleet was falling through a motionless blanket of smog. It was early morning. I was riding in the Lincoln sedan of Dr. Asa Breed. I was vaguely ill, still a little drunk from the night before. Dr. Breed was driving. Tracks of a long-abandoned trolley system kept catching the wheels of his car.
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Digging a ditch where madness gives a bit
Digging a ditch where silence lives
Digging a ditch for when I'm old
Digging this ditch my story's told
Where all these troubles weigh down on me will rise ...
Where all these questions spinning round my head will die
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Who are the farmer's servants? ... Geology and Chemistry, the quarry of the air, the water of the brook, the lightning of the cloud, the castings of the worm, the plough of the frost.
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A whispering and watery Norfolk sound
Telling of all the moonlit reeds around.
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Being my lady on my arm and my slut between the sheets
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Yesterday, some hooligans knocked over a dustbin in Shaftesbury.
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Fenwick, sitting down to
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After tea it's back to painting - a large poplar at dusk with a gathering storm. From time to time instead of this evening painting session I go bowling in one of the neighbouring villages, but not very often.
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Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge,
Gold that I never see;
Lie long high snowdrifts in the hedge
That will not shower on me.
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Dark furrow lines grid the snow, punctuated by orange abacus beads of pumpkins - now the crows own the field ...
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O, to bring back the great Homeric time, The simple manners and the deed sublime: When the wise Wanderer, often foiled by Fate, Through the long furrow drave the ploughshare straight.
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rolling eye balls
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Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow.
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When the sun shines o'er the loch and sparkles on the water like diamond drops, ye know one thing:
somewhere there's a MacLean who is smilin'.
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sucking on a football.
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Storming, enjoying, planning, loving, cautioning,
Backing and filling, appearing and disappearing,
I tread day and night such roads.
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On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
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And so one more to the wandering road. Beyond Blackheath the highway began a steep and curvaceous descent towards Lithgow, where it skirted along hem of the mountains ...
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I feel good when I stir something with a spurtle, but I don't make porridge very much in London.
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Bloody flaming ashes
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Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.
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The concept of Shwopping is so clever, I think. The idea is that every time someone goes shopping, they can take an unwanted item of clothing and pop it in the recycling bin in their M&S store for Oxfam.
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What's feeding in Derry? What's feeding on Derry?
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The tender Evenlode that makes Her meadows hush to hear the sound Of waters mingling in the brakes, And binds my heart to English ground. A lovely river, all alone, She lingers in the hills and holds A hundred little towns of stone, Forgotten in the western wolds.
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The wretch who digs the mine for bread, or ploughs, that others may be fed, feels less fatigued than that decreed to him who cannot think or read.
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Each morning my characters greet me with misty faces willing, though chilled, to muster for another day's progress through the dazzling quicksand the marsh of blank paper.
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Fork! that symbol of the British art of gluttony.
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Slovenliness is a lazy and beastly negligence of a man's own person, whereby he becomes so sordid as to be offensive to those about him.
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SAUNTERING, which word is beautifully derived "from idle people who roved about the country, in the Middle Ages, and asked charity, under pretense of going a la Sainte Terre," to the Holy Land, till the children exclaimed, "There goes a Sainte-Terrer," a Saunterer, a Holy-Lander.
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The last wandering
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Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on.
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Its the shingaling, baby!
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Ere so sober Emily/ Did New England sow/ With brooms of activity/ I'd the tree-rock spoken to.
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poleaxed with exuberance. Keeping to dirt roads,
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I am writing in one of the Keepers' Lodges to wh I have returned after stalking & where I am waiting for the Prince of Wales. Quite the best day's sport I have had in this country - 4 good stags & home early!
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Yowpee! I pulls my brandin' irons an' comes out a-bitin' the dust - a reg'lar Hoopalong Cassowary!
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Let's stop by the shades of a tavern--
Selling raspberry handshakes,
Let's recline by the shimmer of a lantern-
Trampling the silence of snowflakes;
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As the crow flies-a popular and picturesque expression to denote a straight line.
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Ducking around twisted trees whose fingers are branches spread like cracked ceilings under gray sky.
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When a man is tired of Ankh-Morpork, he is tired of ankle-deep slurry.
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Ireland, Ireland. That cloud in the west, that coming storm.
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Just getting out of your town seems to be a pervasive thing in England. But I don't want to keep grinding the axe forever, it's boring.
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The walls were shedding their texture and taking another in the pouncing feathers. Gwyn
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Money! Ho, ho!
'T'as been my want so long, 'tis now my scoff.
I've e'en forgot what colour silver's of.
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When you ran out the tunnel at the old Easter Road for a derby game, you'd get a spittal right on the back of your head. They were spitting on you as you ran out, which actually helped get you going. It was some place.
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Outside, the north wind, coming and passing, swelling and dying, lifts the frozen sand drives it a-rattle against the lidless windows and we may dear sit stroking the cat stroking the cat and smiling sleepily, prrrr.
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On rolls the stream with a perpetual sigh;
The rocks moan wildly as it passes by;
Hyssop and wormwood border all the strand,
And not a flower adorns the dreary land.
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Scotland: That garret of the earth - that knuckle-end of England - that land of Calvin, oatcakes, and sulfur.
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I am crumbling in sync with old Hackney.
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Gust of British wind tousles my hair. (Top of the morning! Oh, no, wait, that's Irish.) It's
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Streams of melting snow.
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You drive the landscape like a herd of clouds Moving against your horizontal tower Of steadfast speed. All England lies beneath you like a woman With limbs ravished By one glance carrying all these eyes.
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My desire to get here [Parliament] was like miners'coal dust, it was under my fingers and I couldn't scrub it out.
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Are you lishening, my pretty vermin, are you lishening?
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I come from south Wales. A place called Aberbargoed.
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Ahead of the tin was all craning white heads and expectant muttering, behind it was silence and crumbs. Lynne
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The best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley.
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Busying herself with inconsequential tasks.
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Many estates are spent in the getting, since women for tea forsake spinning and knitting, and men for punch forsake hewing and splitting.
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smoking some exotic fairy weed.
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verb swon to swear, derivative of swannee I swan, raising kids is like being pecked to death by a chicken