Quotes About Moss

The endars were peaceful creatures. The green fur wasn't fur at all; it was moss that grew from their skin. They lived underneath old oaks, rooted to the big trees in a state of quiet hibernation, absorbing their nutrients and making rare excursions to the surface to lick the bark and feed on lichens. They stirred from their rest so rarely that pagan Slavs thought they fed on air.

Alligators like on the banks by the creeping moss/ And use the sinews of their prey to do their daily floss.

For the wood was full of light, entirely different from the light she was used to. It was green and amber and alive, quivering in splotches on the padded ground, fanning into sturdy stripes between the tree trunks. There were little flowers she did not recognize, white and palest blue; and endless, tangled vines; and here and there a fallen log, half rotted but soft with patches of sweet green-velvet moss.

The late sun's brilliance could penetrate only in scattered glimmers, and everything was silent and untouched, the ground muffled with moss and sliding needles, the graceful arms of the pines stretched out protectively in every direction. And it was cool, blessedly cool and green.

there is moss on the walls and the stain of thought and failure and waiting

One of my favorite shots was on these, like, lava rocks - but moss was growing on it, and I was lying on it, and it was really green, and the picture was really pretty.

The head was an old rook's nest which Francis had fetched down from a tree. It had taken her a whole morning to climb, extract the nest from its twisted bindings and transfer it down, relatively whole and undamaged. She filled holes with moss, and stuffed its insides with a bracken brain. 

there appeared one of the randomly floating spheres of phosphorescence that the pirates called spirit balls; it lifted above the wispy surface of the fog and bounced slowly among the cypress branches and the dangling masses of Spanish moss, and then, just as slowly, fell back into the fog-river, and the glow became nebulous and then died out.

I've never been interested in action movies. Definitely not interested in sci-fi.

In the closeness of the passage, the queen could smell the other woman's perfume, a musky scent that spoke of moss and earth and wildflowers. Under it, she smelled ambition.

A rock was sticking out of the water, jagged and pointed, covered with moss--a remnant of the Ice Age. It had withstood the rains, the snows, the frost, the heat. It was afraid of no one. It did not need redemption, it had already been redeemed.

the moss and grass had begun to overtake this part of the yard, so her chair sat unsteadily on the uneven surface.

I see you go bare-shod. This is most likely extremely sensible. Shoes are no end of trouble for girls. . . . How many have danced to death in slippers of silk and glass and fur and wood? Too many to count—the graveyards, they are so full these days. You are very wise to let your soles become grubby with mud, to let them grow their own slippers of moss and clay and calluses. This is far preferable to shoes which may become wicked at any moment.

The rolling stone rolls echoing from rock to rock; but the rolling stone is dead. The moss is silent because the moss is alive.

I went round the side of the house, and stared at the garden in horror. The ivy had almost taken over. There were still flowers in the borders, but weeds rioted everywhere, choking all the blooms. The stream still trickled in spite of vast tangles of waterweed. I followed it to the end of the garden. The little Japanese house was lurid green with moss. I sat on the cold seat and shut my eyes tight.

It's neurotic fat women who hate me--they're stupid

Smoke By Théophile Gautier Translated by Norman R. Shapiro Over there, trees are sheltering A hunchedback hut... A slum, no more... Roof askew, walls and wainscoting Falling away... Moss hides the door. Only one shutter, hanging... But Seeping over the windowsill, Like frosted breath, proof that this hut, This slum, is living, breathing still. Corkscrew of smoke... A wisp of blue Escapes the hovel, whose soul it is... Rises to God himself, and who Receives the news and makes it his.

Although there is plenty of space on a gravestone to contain, bound in moss, the abridged version of a man's life, detail is always welcome.

This is reality, this is pure fact - this forest, this moss, your hand, the ladybird on my leg, this cannot be taken away, can it? (it will, it was). This has all come together here, no matter how the paths twisted, and fooled each other, and got fouled up, they inevitably met here!

The clear cold sunshine glances into the brittle woods, and approvingly beholds the sharp wind scattering the leaves and drying the moss. It glides over the park after the moving shadows of the clouds, and chases them, and never catches them, all day. It looks in the windows, and touches the ancestral portraits with bars and patches of brightness, never contemplated by the painters.

Anyplace you walked, massive lengths of Spanish moss draped from overhead branches like an endless cavern of ZZ Top beards.

Moss was almost certainly dead. That left the police. Or some agent of the Matacumbe Petroleum Group. Who must think that he thought that they thought that he thought they were very dumb. He thought about that.

Trust me, Moss said. I hate hearin them words, the driver said. I always did. Have you ever said them? Yeah. I've said em. That's how come I know what they're worth.

I once knew an old man who used to tell stories at night by the fire. Stories about paradise. This is how he described it: carpets of moss, pools of cool water, flowers and sweet berries everywhere, trees growing up to the sky, and the voices of their leaves speaking to the wind above you. Can you hear them?