Quotes About Moss

Witches' feet make no footprint. Witches' bodies make no shadows. But they make the trees, the land, the moss, A little colder as they pass.

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.

The gorse was in bloom, the fuchsia hedges were already budding; wild green hills, mounds of peat; yes, Ireland is green, very green, but its green is not only the green of meadows, it is the green of moss - certainly here, beyond Roscommon, toward County Mayo - and Moss is the plant of resignation, of forsakenenness. The country is forsaken, it is being slowly but steadily depopulated...

Great tracts of reindeer moss, for example: tiny stars and florets and inklings of an ancient flora growing on exhausted land. Crisp underfoot in summer, the stuff is like a patch of the arctic fallen into the world in the wrong place. Everywhere, there are bony shoulders and blades of flint. On wet mornings you can pick up shards knocked from flint cores by Neolithic craftsmen, tiny flakes of stone glowing in thin coats of cold water.

And I'll dance with you in Vienna, I'll be wearing a river's disguise. The hyacinth wild on my shoulder my mouth on the dew of your thighs. And I'll bury my soul in a scrapbook, with the photographs there and the moss. And I'll yield to the flood of your beauty, my cheap violin and my cross.

Only farmers and summer guests walk on the moss. What they don't know - and it cannot be repeated too often - is that moss is terribly frail. Step on it once and it rises the next time it rains. The second time, it doesn't rise back up. And the third time you step on moss, it dies.

You can't discipline the whole country. Still, Moss said dreamily, that's what must be done before they can ever accomplish anything.

But chivalry's day is over. One day soon moss will grow in the tilt yard. The days of the moneylender have arrived, and the days of the swaggering privateer; banker sits down with banker, and kings are their waiting boys.

Cardan removes his glamour, glad to be free of it, drinking in the fragrance of moss and loam. The moonlight shines down, reflecting off leaf and stone.

They were lying on a bed of soft moss at the edge of The Crooked Forest. He could hear waves crashing along the shore. She was sprawled out in a robe of silver, her hair spread beneath her like a tide pool.

People forget I go to work. They forget that the Coleridge house was bought and paid for by the daughter of a travel agent and a barmaid from what the actor Richard Burton once described as the nightmarish 'featureless suburb' of Croydon.

London is speared by the tube map of fashion zone: zone one is classic-edgy, zone two is edgy-dowdy while the counties do a classic, edgy, dowdy hotch potch - epitomised so beautifully by Kate Moss.

the skin of moss / holds the footprints of / star-footed birds.

An hour later, Cartier returned with a number of beautiful flowering plants, which he placed himself in the jardinieres, covering them with fresh moss. Godefroid paid his bill; also that of the circulating library, which was brought soon after. Books and flowers! — these were the daily bread of this poor invalid, this tortured creature, who was satisfied with so little.

She looked up at him, her eyes enormous. He noticed they were hazel, the sort that picked up whatever hue was near. Now they were the same shade of green as the moss ringing the cavern.

Altogether elsewhere, vast Herds of reindeer move across Miles and miles of golden moss, silently and very fast.

the old towns in the South where queer grey moss hangs from the trees...

Wild dreaming is what they desire most. Dreams that hold the scent of deep green moss, lichen, the place where the roots of a tree enter the earth, old stone, the dust of a moth's wings.

She asked him, What is the scent of snow? He replied, Soft, cold, blue. And she asked of blue could be a scent. He answered, Moss, tundra, clean earth and lichen. The scent of snow is calm, An absence of scent that illuminates, so that any warm life smells so rich.

She had not forgotten the time she was lost - how even while lost she refused to feel the fear, but instead saw only the green beauty of the wildwood, breathing deep the scent of trees, earth, lichen, moss.

I felt his voice. Fingers rubbing moss. Smoke curling. Wood worn and smoothed over time. His voice had darkness in it that hovered close to the ground, like a mist hanging over a lake deep in a forest at dusk. A bolt of sea-green velvet. A sensation as much as a series of sounds. It reverberated inside me.

Only two weeks before, on November 24, her father's forces had been routed by the English at the battle of Solway Moss.

The tide goes out imperceptibly. The boulders show and seem to rise up and the ocean recedes leaving little pools, leaving wet weed and moss and sponge, iridescence and brown and blue and China red. On the bottoms lie the incredible refuse of the sea, shells broken and chipped and bits of skeleton, claws, the whole sea bottom a fantastic cemetery on which the living scamper and scramble.

On the king's gate the moss grew gray;The king came not. They called him deadAnd made his eldest son one daySlave in his father's stead.