Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Swamp. 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 Swamp Quotes And Sayings by 92 Authors including Billy Tauzin,Lauren Slater,Haruki Murakami,Patrick Ness,Sela Carsen for you to enjoy and share.
Half of Louisiana is under water and the other half is under indictment.
The clear water the color of deeply steeped tea, surrounded by cattails and gracile grasses.
Thinking back ( ... ) all that comes to mind for me is a swamp - a deep, sticky bog that feels as if it's going to suck off my shoe each time I take a step. I walk through the mud, exhausted. In front of me, behind me, I can see nothing but the endless darkness of a swamp.
The loud is a different kind of loud, because swamp loud is just curiosity, creachers figuring out who you are and if yer a threat. Whereas the town knows all about you already and wants to know more and wants to beat you with what it knows till how can you have any of yerself left at all? Swamp
Just in front of her lay the Congaree Swamp National Forest. To prove it, a mosquito the size of a kitten landed on her arm and prepared to drill.
Who can (make) the muddy water (clear)?
One of the things that's been really fun about my run on 'Swamp Thing' is putting him in all kinds of different locations around the world, and seeing how his exterior foliage changes based on his location.
A squalid phantasmagoria of breath
The drenched backyard full of runoff, and tiny, slimy, uncertain yard critters who had expected to remain buried in months of hard mud, peeking their heads out into the balmy New Year's air, asking, Wait, what?
Forty percent of the United States drains into the Mississippi. It's agriculture. It's golf courses. It's domestic runoff from our lawns and roads. Ultimately, where does it go? Downstream into the gulf.
What sort of water is that?" said Holtzclaw. "The wet kind," said Ms. Rathbun.
I grew up in Mobile, Alabama - somebody's got to be from Mobile, right? - and Mobile sits at the confluence of five rivers, forming this beautiful delta. And the delta has alligators crawling in and out of rivers filled with fish and cypress trees dripping with snakes, birds of every flavor.
Old dark sleepy pool ... Quick unexpected frog Goes plop! Watersplash!
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
Upstream, Arkansas and Ohio have their bottomlands, too, populated by a jaundiced and hungry-looking race, prone to fevers, whose eyes gleam at the sight of stone and iron, for they know only sand and driftwood and muddy water.
The miracle of light pours over the green and brown expanse of saw grass and of water, shining and slowly moving, the grass and water that is the meaning and the central fact of the Everglades. It is a river of grass.
I have seen these marshes a thousand times, yet each time they're new. It's wrong to call them benign. You could just as well call them cruel and senseless, they are all of those things, but the reality of them overwhelms halfway conceptions.
Astonishingly slimy and dangerous
Be careful. The conditions are treacherous with mud-sucking tentacles pulling shoes and socks into the murky bottom while smearing grime on those who passed by.
What do you call those things at the bottom of rivers? Frogs? Stones? Unsuccessful gangsters?
For many of us, water simply flows from a faucet, and we think little about it beyond this point of contact. We have lost a sense of respect for the wild river, for the complex workings of a wetland, for the intricate web of life that water supports.
My feet are wet," said Mr. Dreary.
"You lack the proper gear," I said. We teetered along a trickle of land that wound between water and mud. "Here in the swamp, even the swans wear rubber boots.
I have always wanted to see what the vibe was like and I was right It's on the Vermillion Bayou.
But crossing into Louisiana I got this haunted little rill of feeling -- there was moss and mud everywhere and an inexplicable, hollow sensation that Louisiana is what would be left of the South after it has been nuked -- that I and everything around me were irretrievably rotten.
living in a stinking
Some nasty old fart and his weird wife died, but the airboat swamp tour was awesome." She
We hate our squalor.
I'll talk about the Everglades at the drop of a hat.
Being in a floodplain is like sitting down in a bathtub.
I hope there may be bogs and that John McKenzie may drown in them.
Most of the time you're ass deep in alligators.
What do you think I live on, rainwater and daydreams?
The swamp had sent back the soul of her loved dead and put it into the body of the daughter she resented, and it was almost more than she could endure and live.
How very wet this water is.
Trying to find solace in the remaining
parks and lakes.
Now we're forced to get away,
take trips to the real
places.
The forest.
The ocean.
Loony hillbillies destabilized by gross quantities of impure corn liquor and generations of profoundly unbiblical sex;
Ah can look through muddy water and see dry land.
We tend to be rather murky little ponds, containing many layers of suspended dirt and grime and our greatest depths are stirred by the strangest of currents.
Up the well known creek
The miracle of the light pours over the green and brown expanse of saw grass and of water, shining and slow-moving below, the grass and water that is the meaning and the central fact of the Everglades of Florida. It is a river of grass.
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well.
For the bored souls, sometimes sea is the best answer!
Swampy [ Marsh] and I live as far away from each other as we possibly can and still work together. But we just always felt like we were funnier when we were in the room together than we are when we're separate.
Almost everything strange washes up near Miami.
I like the smell of a dunged field, and the tumult of a popular election.
Dead fields under a November sky, scattered rose petals brown and turning up at the edges, empty pools scummed with algae, rot, decomposition, dust ...
On a sea floor that looks like a sandy mud bottom, that at first glance might appear to be sand and mud, when you look closely and sit there as I do for a while and just wait, all sorts of creatures show themselves, with little heads popping out of the sand. It is a metropolis.
Tom felt his skin crawl as he laid eyes on the center of the pool. A great, awful thing towered over him from the tiny island. Its gnarled, flesh-colored roots were planted in the lake of offal like drowned snakes, drawing its sick nourishment.
What airs outblown from ferny dells And clover-bloom and sweet brier smells.
the coast, irregular
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.
mimosas dug for water and women like Auntie washed
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.
Let all the poison that lurks in the mud, hatch out.
Big streams from little fountains flow. Great oaks from little acorns grow;
Nancy Pelosi said that when it comes to cleaning up government, the Democrats have drained the swamp. The only problem with that is what's left after you drain the swamp: snakes everywhere.
The world's oldest and deepest body of freshwater, Lake Baikal, is turning into a swamp, Russian ecologists warn.
Just take them rascals [rapists, killers, child abusers] out in the swamp / Put 'em on their knees and tie 'em to a stump / Let the rattlers and the bugs and the alligators do the rest,
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.
A stellar, fully-realized collection of stories ... grounded, wonderfully, in the river valleys of western Maine. You come away not only understanding a place but the soul of its people.
The Mississippi looks like diluted mud by day but by night it's again the grand and majestic river of the days of tomahawks and coonskin caps.
Midway between land and water, freshwater marshes are among the most highly productive ecosystems on earth, rivaling the tropical rainforest.
The world of water has a way of perpetuating myths and shrouding lakes in mystery.
Sugartown Sugartown Sugartown Sugartown.
The air was so sweet in New Orleans it seemed to come in soft bandannas; and you could smell the river and really smell the people, and mud, and molasses, and every kind of tropical exhalation, with your nose suddenly removed from the dry ices of a Northern winter.
The muddy rivers of spring
Are snarling
Under the muddy skies.
The mind is muddy.
Collecting all The rains of May The swift Mogami River.
This Boston voice squeaking out its song. The yellow light goes out the window on the stubs of windy grass and black rocks. And down the wet steps by gorse stumps and rusty heather to the high water mark and diving pool. Where the seaweeds rise and fall at night in Balscaddoon Bay.
The countryside they
I am filled with humidity.
Armed with my sword and wand, I was all set for a stroll through the swamp to look for a hungry monster. Oh, joy!
The Florida peninsula is, in fact, an emerging plateau, honeycombed with voids and vents, caves and underground waterways. Travelers on Interstate Highway I-75 have no idea that, beneath them, are cave labyrinths still being mapped by speleologists - 'cavers,' they prefer to be called.
Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime!
About fifteen miles above New Orleans the river goes very slowly. It has broadened out there until it is almost a sea and the water is yellow with the mud of half a continent. Where the sun strikes it, it is golden.
Whatever story you're telling in Louisiana, the landscape is going to become a character in it.
Where there is water, there are people.
The wind and the rain, gives this place a gleam that just isn't natural. And the ground, alive with crawling things, crawling death.
Let muddy water stand and it will become clear.
Newaygo County, Michigan, is a strangely beautiful, yet almost fearful land. Its muscular forests flex around sodden lowlands.
moss that is concentrating on being green.
Romney Marsh remains one of the last great wildernesses of south-east England. Flat as a desert, and at times just as daunting, it is an odd, occasionally eerie wetland straddling the coastal borders of Kent and Sussex, rich in birds, local folklore and solitary medieval churches.
Obscure, like muddy waters.
The rain swirls over the trees and roofs of the town, and the parched earth soaks it up, exuding a fragrance that comes only once in a year, the fragrance of quenched earth, the most exhilarating of all smells.
Were trying to dig up the roots of that big oak stump near the
I am haunted by waters.
A wood that smells of the sea.
You can't vote that water out of the city of New Orleans.
My kingdom for a flush toilet.
Macon, wet from the raindrops for the first time.
Earth's sweat, the sea.
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.
Louisiana in September was like an obscene phone call from nature. The air - moist, sultry, secretive, and far from fresh - felt as if it were being exhaled into one's face. Sometimes it even sounded like heavy breathing.
My backyard was replete with madness, it just grew indigenously in South Florida.
History - that little sewer where man loves to wallow.
My parents moved to Florida when I was 12, and my backyard was the Gulf of Mexico.
Come the rains and the beerbahutis appeared all over the green. From where do they emerge, so perfect in shape and colour, and where do they go?
In Nature there is no dirt, everything is in the right condition; the swamp and the worm, as well as the grass and the bird,-all is there for itself.
Shit, he said as a great, green glut of water poured up at our feet. I wonder what the ordinary people are doin today.
Flying over New Orleans on our approach, I got it. There was no view of land without water - water in the great looming form of Lake Pontchartrain, water cutting through in tributaries, water flowing beside a long stretch of highway, water just - everywhere.
There's a country spread out in the sky, a credulous carpet of rainbows and crepuscular plants: I move toward it just a bit haggardly, trampling a gravedigger's rubble still moist from the spade to dream in a bedlam of vegetables.