Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Weathered. 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 Weathered Quotes And Sayings by 95 Authors including Lauren Oliver,Patrick Rothfuss,Ted Hughes,Mikhail Lermontov,Lao-Tzu for you to enjoy and share.
The sun is rising, a rusty color, the color of old blood, and I'm so
I grew thinner and more ragged. I slept in rain or sun, on soft grass, moist earth, or sharp stones with an intensity of indifference that only grief can promote.
The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed,
And my head, worn out with love, at rest
In my hands, and my hands full of dust.
I am like a mariner born and bred on board a buccaneer brig whose soul has become so inured to storm and strife that if cast ashore he would weary and languish no matter how alluring the shady groves and how bright the gentle sun.
To be worn out is to be renewed.
Twas when the seas were roaring With hollow blasts of wind, A damsel lay deploring, All on a rock reclined.
Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.
Roll in the snow.
Shower in the rain.
Bask in the sun.
Weatherproof your soul.
Bathed in the thick honey gold of the sun through encircling trees only just beginning to turn the muted metal colors of fall.
What does old look like? Sometimes I am wrinkled, sometimes not.
The paint has a skin to it, here taut and glossy, there wrinkled, abraded, scarred. It is pierced, abraded, scraped. A line drawn through it will go through half a dozen states, from the furry bloom of crusted charcoal to a blind furrow, cutting a channel in to soft paint below.
The color has faded out of the sky. It is grey, becoming darker as the world turns herself round a little more. The clouds are long and black and ragged, like the wings of stormbattered dragons.
It was winter here, as if they were in Patagonia or New Zealand, and the light from the sunspot on the sunline smeared so that shadows blurred at the edges, and the air looked rusty.
Now you are burnt-out husks, your spirits haggard, sere, always breeding over your wanderings long and hard, your hearts never lifting with any joy - you've suffered far too much.
Sediments of stones scatter as the ego hath crushed, weather of life changes every form , be it rock or a human!
I was sand, I was snow - written on, rewritten, smoothed over.
It's evening, one of those gray water-color washes, like liquid dust.
You're paved in my heart like an old road. Like the pebbles in a pebble field, dirt in dirt, dust in dust, cobwebs in cobwebs.
He was bald-headed except for a little fringe of rust-colored hair and his face was nearly the same color as the unpaved roads and washed like them with ruts and gullys.
When the wind came it split the sky and shouldered the cloud-band left and right; unbarring great clear furnaces of rolling gold.
The wilderness is cracked and browned But through the water pale and thin Still shine the unoffending feet And there above the painter set 15 The Father and the Paraclete. .
was a bird. A bird struggling through stickiness: a bird coated in paint, floundering in its nest, splashing color everywhere. Red. Red. Red. Dozens of them: black feathers coated thickly with crimson-colored paint, fluttering among the branches. Red
I have always been comfortable weathering the storm.
I'd like to get more comfortable weathering the sunny day.
The grass was tall and parched, the limbs of the trees barren or else dotted with a few remaining leaves, the stragglers, bleached to the color of bone. They lifted in the breeze like waving hands, rustling like old paper.
The landscape rose and fell like a honeymoon duvet,
Night. Rain. A livid sky pierces the lacework
Of spires and towers, the silhouette of a Gothic
Town dim in the gray distance.
Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn, Come clear of the nets of wrong and right; Laugh heart again in the gray twilight, Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.
The line storm clouds fly tattered and swift,
The road is forlorn all day, ...
She wakes in a puddle of sunlight.
Her hands asleep beside her.
Her hair draped on the lawn
like a mantle of cloth.
All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart, The heavy steps of the plowman, splashing the wintry mold, Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.
(a specially oily old gentleman in a blanket, with a swan's-down tippet for a beard, and a web of cracks all over him like rich pie-crust),
I prefer the rather old and battered, things with character, to the brand new.
Wrecked on the lee shore of age.
A pile of timber, remains of either a house or a ship, huddled like a frightened child, cradling a glint of metal in
As he farmed, hard labor left his hands callused, the sun bleached his hair, his face leathered, and his heart throbbed with music.
screwed blued and tattooed
Sprinkled along the waste of years Full many a soft green isle appears: Pause where we may upon the desert road, Some shelter is in sight, some sacred safe abode.
The answer is blowin' in the wind.
This parched evening seasons the night with remembrances of rain.
Sweet recreation barred, what doth ensue but moody and dull melancholy, kinsman to grim and comfortless despair.
Pretty mountains, pretty river, bumpy but pleasant tar road ... old buildings, old people on a front porch ... strange how old, obsolete buildings and plants and mills, the technology of fifty and a hundred years ago, always seem to look so much better than the new stuff.
What's old collapses, times change, and new life blossoms in the ruins.
You feel rain in a used bookstore. The old pages pick up the damp and mustiness like old bones do rheumatism.
Harsh winds, rough seas, still hearts.
Labor's face is wrinkled with the wind, and swarthy with the sun.
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
With sharpen'd sight pale Antiquaries pore, Th' inscription value, but the rust adore. This the blue varnish, that the green endears; The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years.
Dead fields under a November sky, scattered rose petals brown and turning up at the edges, empty pools scummed with algae, rot, decomposition, dust ...
Leaves like rusty tin
for the desolate mind that has seen the end-
the barest glimmerings.
Leaves aswirl with gulls
made wild by winter.
Wuthering being a significant, provincial adjective descriptive of the atmospheric tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather.
Traditional homes of our old world have been abandoned, windows shattered, roofs collapsing, red and green and blue paint scrubbed into muted shades to better match our bright future.
Thou hast had thty day, old dame, but thy sun has long been set. Thou art now the very emblem of an old warhorse turned out on the barren heath; thou hast had thy paces in thy time, but now a broken amble is the best of them.
been tumbled smooth by waves
A cave of scars!
ancient, archaic wallpaper
built up, layer on layer
from the earliest, dream-white
to yesterday's, a red-black scrawl
a red mouth slowly closing
Iron bridges hum and lofty buildings of steel and glass glint in the sun's rays and lean over everything with stretched shadows.
Rain on roof outside window, gray light, deep covers and warm blankets. Rain and nip of autumn in air; nostalgia, itch to work better and bigger. That crisp edge of autumn.
Wrinkled, wrinkled little star ... hope they never see the scars.
Again rejoicing Nature sees
Her robe assume its vernal hues
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
All freshly steep'd in the morning dews.
I'm attempting to broaden my novels' scope through landscape and weather, leaves falling off trees, overnight storms, timeless elements which, irrespective of human endeavour, have always been there and, as long as there is life and snow, will always be there.
Shined, combed, brushed and gorgeous
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.
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.
Blessed are the cracked, for they let in the light
I feel as exposed as a sweatshirt worn wrong-side-out, or like pocket linings dangling outside of a pair of jeans. My heart, my hope, hang in the afternoon sun.
The patchy starlight gives every one of his bee-sting scars its own shadow, so his face mirrors the desert landscape: bursts of scrub and rocks, miles of flat.
She had a lined, weathered face that put Roh in mind of the creased leather spines of old books.
When there are no clouds in the sky, under the beautiful sunshine, remember the rain and repair your umbrella!
A wild rose roofs the ruined shed, And that and summer well agree.
The rain pelts the world on pause
Whatever it is, it's better in the wind.
Becoming unshakeable through this storm.
I don't want to rust out, I'd rather wear out.
Adventure-seasoned and storm-buffeted,
I shun all signs of anchorage, because
The zest of life exceeds the bound of laws.
Am I a storm-waster? For it is within the fury of the very storms within which I cower that I find resources for my growth that are entirely absent on calmer days.
Jolly boating weather,
And a hay harvest breeze,
Blade on the feather,
Shade off the trees.
Rough wind, the moanest loud Grief too sad for song; Wild wind, when sullen cloud Knells all the night long; Sad storm, whose tears are vain, Bare woods, whose branches strain, Deep caves and dreary main, Wail, for the world's wrong!
Morning dawned bright and sparkling after the rain. The air was keen and crisp. The cedars glistened as if decked with diamonds. Pan felt the sweet scent of the damp dust, and it gave him a thrill and a longing for the saddle and the open country.
The later rain,
it falls in anxious haste
Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare,
Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste,
As if it would each root's lost strength repair.
Blowing,Blowing
The gray slabs
Will lose you
the winds will flick you away
In a whiff
A grey wrinkled vastness, like the residue of a dream
Few minds wear out; more rust out.
Urban callused feet
Walking barefoot on the beach
Worn smooth by the sand
A classic is like a hidden treasure. Its core is buried under so many layers of varnish that it can be reached only by patience and infiltration.
Spooky wild and gusty; swirling dervishes of rattling leaves race by, fleeing the windflung deadwood that cracks and thumps behind.
Where can we hide in fair weather, we orphans of the storm?
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder; A dreary sea now flows between, But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, Shall wholly do away, I ween, The marks of that which once hath been.
an overcast luminance, a subdued warmth
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, / Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost.
There is moss on the walls and the stain of thought and failure and waiting
I am tarred and feathered with Time.
Dry leaves rustled up against the walls and skittered away. It was that time of year when it could be hot or cold from day to day; it was neither summer nor fall. An in-between, liminal time. A border.
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 kind of weather that reminds you after a long winter that while the world wasn't built for humans, we were built for the world. t
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ringed with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.
A face that looked like it had been whittled out of driftwood.
The land is all too shallow
It is painted on the sky
And trembles like the wind-shook rain
When the Raven King passed by
the coast, irregular
Why did I feel warmed by imperfections, discomfort, and patina?
Because intense living leaves scars, and I could not find such scars anywhere in America. Inner scars, softened, human wear and tear.
Bruised, beaten, shaken, weakened, tossed, thrown, lost, alone, heard, helped, healed, hope... it still works.