Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Wainscoting. 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 Wainscoting Quotes And Sayings by 92 Authors including Joseph Conrad,Toba Beta,Antoine Predock,Mary Mapes Dodge,William Shakespeare for you to enjoy and share.
Skirts of the unknown, and the white men rushing out of a tumble-down hovel, with great gestures
S'tjwetla is a black man's striptease.
The legendary tumbleweed is really a nurse crop that protects the growth of prairie grasses under its shade, and then it sacrifices itself and blows away.
[On the Netherlands:] There is not a richer or more carefully tilled garden spot in the whole world than this leaky, springy little country.
Foul whisp'rings are abroad.
This episode of my life is brought to you by the letters W, t, and F. I do not understand.
The weathercocks on spires and housetops were mysterious with hints of stormy wind, and pointed, like so many ghostly fingers, out to dangerous seas, where fragments of great wrecks were drifting, perhaps, and helpless men were rocked upon them into a sleep as deep as the unfathomable waters.
Loaming is my special word for it..it's a combination of looming and roaming
Oft in dreams invention we bestow to change a flounce or add a furbelow.
We saw men haying far off in the meadow, their heads waving like the grass which they cut. In the distance the wind seemed to bend all alike.
Groangrousegurgling Toft's cumbersome whirligig turns slowly the room right roundabout the room.)
The morning drips her dew for me, Noon spreads an opal canopy. Home-bound, the drifting cloud-crafts rest Where sunset ambers all the west ...
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.
Winnowing is more like a trip to the confessional ... transparent & vulnerable without being sentimental. These songs have elements that are more like prayers & pleas for faith. They're questionings and wrangling in the dark about the journey.
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
Thus with hir fader for a certeyn space
Dwelleth this flour of wyfly pacience,
That neither by hir wordes ne hir face
Biforn the folk, ne eek in her absence,
Ne shewed she that hir was doon offence.
Rocking on a lazy billow
With roaming eyes,
Cushioned on a dreamy pillow,
Thou art now wise.
Wake the power within thee slumbering,
Trim the plot that's in thy keeping,
Thou wilt bless the task when reaping
Sweet labour's prize.
When the wind likes a path, the weeds around that path will tremble all day long!
Wi' basket oft shoo walks abroad To some poor lonely elf; To ivery one shoo knaws t' reight way At's poorer nor(2) herself. Shoo niverr speyks o' what shoo gives, Kind, gentle-hearted sowl; I' charity her hands find wark, Shoo's good alike to all.
Crafting, as the title suggests,
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.
WindClan has traveled a long time. It's nearly a moon since ShadowClan drove us from our home. The weather is turning colder, and leaf-bare will be here soon. We have no choice but to stay.
The winds with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kisst.
Always wetweating-always wetweating!
At dusk they pour from the sky. They blow across the ramparts, turn cartwheels over rooftops, flutter into the ravines between houses. Entire streets swirl with them, flashing white against the cobbles. Urgent message to the inhabitants of this town, they say. Depart immediately to open country.
Outrageous flowers swagging off balconies like bright skirts of ballgowns ...
On the Kite, the situation was being 'workshopped'. This is the means by which people who don't know anything get together to pool their ignorance.
This thing of venturing out on the ocean where you don't see land.
In spite of unseasonable wind, snow and unexpected weather of all sorts - a gardener still plants. And tends what they have planted ... believing that Spring will come.
I'll be contacting Webster tomorrow. My suggestion will be absofuckingmazing.
Plant in tears, harvest with joy.
Words slip into a language the way white-green vines slide between slats in a fence.
Pluck not the wayside flower;
It is the traveler's dower.
When water gets caught in habitual whirlpools, dig a way out through the bottom of the ocean.
But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain;
Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose,
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose.
We have all at one time been stranded on islands shouting lies across the seas of misunderstanding, hoping the fog will carry our mischief to the distant ports in people's minds.
But when the web is pulled askew, hooked up at the edge, torn in the middle, one remembers that these webs are not spun in mid-air by incorporeal creatures, but are the work of suffering human beings, and are attached to grossly material things, like health and money and the houses we live in.
N OthI n g can s urPas s the m y SteR y of s tilLnes s
I am so tired, I can hardly type these worfs.
weaving his way across
Burning the small dead branches broke from beneath thick spreading whitebark pine. A hundred summers snowmelt rock and air hiss in a twisted bough.
the incessant seethe of grasses
One world on its own is a strange enough seethe of coiling, unknowable veins of intention and chance, but two? Where two worlds mingle breath through rips in the sky, the strange becomes stranger, and many things may come to pass that few imaginations could encompass.
Sometimes, from beyond the skycrapers, the cry of a tugboat finds you in your insomnia, and you remember that this desert of iron and cement is an island.
mawage 'mah-'wahge. 1; a bwessed awangement 2; a dweam wifin a dweam - T-SHIRT
To care about weaving, to make weavings, is to be in touch with a long human tradition. We people have woven, first baskets and then cloth, for at least ten thousand years. This book will give you many ways to become connected with that tradition.
Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, -
Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag, -
Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree, -
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea.
Hurry n: The dispatch of bunglers.
How seasonably
leaf and blossom uncurl
and living things arrange their death,
while someone from afar off
blows birthday candles for the world.
Let us not only scatter benefits, but even strew flowers for our fellow-travellers, in the rugged ways of this wretched world.
Our wyrds - our fates
I am spinning the silk threads of my story, weaving the fabric of my world.
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
Autumn resumes the land, ruffles the woods
with smoky wings, entangles them.
Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding,Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West,That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding,Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest?
Off the tilting world like thread off a
Ducking around twisted trees whose fingers are branches spread like cracked ceilings under gray sky.
If you succeed not, cast not away the quills yet, nor scratch the wainscot, beat not the poor desk, but bring all to the forge and file again; turn it new.
The world has raised its whip; where will it descend
The cabbage white flies through the tailor's cheek. The tailor sinks his head. The cabbage white flies out of the back of the tailor's head, white and uncrumpled. Skinny Wilma flaps her handkerchief. The cabbage white flies through her forehead and into her head.
Whirling of her skirts,
a chequered carpet beneath-
sunset dawns outside.
Well, one wearies of the Public Gardens: one wants a vacation
Where trees and clouds and animals pay no notice;
Away from the labeled elms, the tame tea-roses
Voyaging begins when one burns one's boats, adventures begin with a shipwreck.
My patchwork life: quiet Sunday, coffee on Grace's breath, the unfamiliar landscape of the lumpy new scar on my arm, the dangerous smell of snow in the air. Two different worlds circling each other, getting closer and closer, knotting together in ways I'd never imagined.
These handkerchief gardens are a traditional German solution to apartment dwellers' yearning for a tool shed and a vegetable garden. They make a patchwork of green in odd corners of urban land, along train lines or canals or, as here, in the lee of the Wall.
For raging wind blows up incessant showers
The stretching, yearning stalks hiss against the boat's bottom, making a white noise that sounds like pollen coming out of a piss-blizzard.
So I have this word for much of what I do in life: 'plorking.' I'm not playing and I'm not working, I'm plorking.
Inhabited by those who died in wickness,
Whining and panting beneath
Now Nature hangs her mantle green
On every blooming tree,
And spreads her sheets o'daisies white
Out o'er the grassy lea.
Woe is forerun with woe.
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.
I am a work in progress Dressed in the fabric of a world unfolding Offering me intricate patterns of questions Rhythms that never come clean And strengths that you still haven't seen
a furtive groove
Churning, baking, spinning and soap-making. In summer,
Wabe. Maybe it's initials for something like Will All Babies Expectorate.
Ingratitude's a weed of every clime, It thrives too fast at first, but fades in time.
Jolly boating weather,
And a hay harvest breeze,
Blade on the feather,
Shade off the trees.
Through the dripping weeks that follow One another slow, and soak Summer's extinguished fire and autumn's drifting smoke.
For Wayfarers still journeying, for Wanderers at rest.
When the April wind wakes the call for the soil, I hold the plough as my only hold upon the earth, and, as I follow through the fresh and fragrant furrow, I am planted with every foot-step, growing, budding, blooming into a spirit of spring.
Sigh of leaves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times,
Is it a world in the making
that turns as it whistles to the depths of my being
It is burning
Suppose it were to appear
A bleeding rosary at the window
a sun setting on the marshlands
("Silver Clasp")
Duden Dictionary Meaning #4. Wort - Word: A meaningful unit of language / a promise / a short remark, statement, or conversation. Related words: term, name, expession.
A weaver who has to direct and to interweave a great many little threads has no time to philosophize about it, but rather he is so absorbed in his work that he doesn't think but acts, and he feels how things must go more than he can explain it.
Let the world wagge, and take mine ease in myne Inne.
The life of the earth comes up with a rush in the springtime. All the wild seeds of weed and thistle, the sprouts of vine and bush and tree, are trying to take the fields. Farmers must fight them with harrow and plow and hoe; they must plant the good seeds quickly.
Let the winds come from the sea and blow seeds about, seeds of the north, south, east, and west. Let the moths beat their wings against the windows and the fishermen cast curious glances. Let them come, let them return, let them reach.
What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? - it's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.
Horticulture ]10w]
I am an advocate of horticulture and higher-education for sluts.
The wheel weaves as the wheel wills
A week of sweeping fogs has passed over and given me a strange sense of exile and desolation. I walk round the island nearly every day, yet I can see nothing anywhere but a mass of wet rock, a strip of surf, and then a tumult of waves.
Yet nightly pitch my moving tent, a day's march nearer home.
With the advent of spring and beginning of the new harvest season the creators of abundance, our peasants, come out to the fields to sow with good aspirations and hopes.
Overhead the sky was melting, the cracked cream color rubbing off in cogs of brine.
The fields far ahead of me in endless pudding, studded here and there with what had been: homes and houses, hair and heirlooms, habits, hallways, hauntings, hope.
The plow of mortality drives through the stubble, turns over rocks and sod and weeds to cover the old, the worn-out, the husks, shells, empty seedpods and sapless roots, clearing the field for the next crop. A ruthless, brutal process - but clean and beautiful.
The snow ... came in thick tufts like new wool - washed before the weaver spins it.
When the wind of change blows, some build walls, while others build windmills.
From sunny woof and cloudy weft Fell rain in sheets; so, to myself I hummed these hazard rhymes, and left The learned volume on the shelf.