Quotes About Maple

Whenever there is a breeze in the old forest, you might, for a moment, realize that the trees are singing. There, on the wind, are the voices of sugarberry and juniper and maple...

The king poured maple syrup on his waffle. The syrup puddled the depressions in the waffle the way that desire puddles the folds in the brain

October turned my maple's leaves to gold; The most are gone now; here and there one lingers; Soon these will slip from out the twig's weak hold, Like coins between a dying miser's fingers.

the sprawling branches of the maple tree were plush with autumn.

As his drove past the silhouettes of maple trees, stefan cringed from the memory that sprang up suddenly. He would not think that, he would not let himself... but the images were already unreeling before him. It was as if the journal had fallen open and he could do no more than stare helplessly at the page while the story played itself out in his mind...

Mark, looking beatific, took the dispenser of maple syrup off the table and upended it over his strawberries. He picked one up and put it in his mouth, stem and all. Julian stared at him. "What?" Mark said. "This is a perfectly normal thing to eat." "Sure it is," said Julian. "If you're a hummingbird.

Maple butter spread on a tortilla is absolutely delightful.

Oh no, the untamed wilds of third-world-country Canada. Who knows, maybe these pills are just beaver pelts and maple syrup.

The big stone house under the maple

It's all about colour and texture. It's about being outside in the middle of deciduous forest, the tall grasses and rustling leaves. You can take one maple leaf and see almost all the colours of the rainbow in it — although you would need your imagination to see blue.

An ancient maple-tree, a strong sweet tree That has made wild music from the wind and snow For ninety winters; a maple-tree whose arms, Stretching against the rain, the bouncing hail, Has sheltered multitudes of travellers And straggling hosts of elders, wayworn, palsied, And weary with the day,—for ninety summers.

A maple that has yielded up its life Season on sugar-season—oh, what can be More tragic in its beauty than a maple: Swollen and scarred of trunk, and varicose From gashes in the bark, from too many wounds Of too many spiles that let out too much sap, From too much giving, giving for ninety years, For ninety Moons-of-Maple-Sugar-Making, For ninety Moons-of-Gathering-of-Wild-Rice, For ninety Moons-of-the-Falling-of-the-Leaves, For ninety Moons-of-the-Coming-of-the-Snow.

I remember it as October days are always remembered, cloudless, maple-flavored, the air gold and so clean it quivers.

bourbon with a splash of ginger ale, a shot of maple syrup, then club

bourbon with a splash of ginger ale, a shot of maple syrup, then club soda

PROSCIUTTO- AND SAGE-WRAPPED DATES (Serves 6)   INGREDIENTS 24 fresh sage leaves 12 dates, halved, pits removed 1 pack prosciutto, each slice sliced lengthways down the middle 2 Tablespoons maple syrup   Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Place a sage leaf on each date half, wrap with prosciutto, place flat side down on a baking sheet. Bake 10 minutes. Brush with maple syrup and serve.

I drink maple syrup. Then I'm hyper so I just run around like crazy and work it all off.

Sugaring season is the season when you tap the trees for sugar that turns into maple syrup. I've married someone from Vermont, so it's an expression I kept hearing, and I'm like, 'What is that? That's just so beautiful.' I like the idea it's the very, very first murmurings of spring.

I'd lie with the moonlight angling through the backyard maple to cast a fretwork of shadows on the wall and remember the ghost of my old fears, although I no longer saw the shadows as the skeletal hands of a beast come to claim my soul

Then Marco Polo spoke: "Your chessboard, sire, is inlaid with two woods: ebony and maple. The square on which your enlightened gaze is fixed was cut from the ring of a trunk that grew in a year of drought: you see how its fibers are arranged? Here a barely hinted knot can be made out: a bud tried to burgeon on a premature spring day, but the night's frost forced it to desist.

He tasted of maple syrup, of apologies.

maple. I wasn't going to get the old samurai sword out and chase him.

We drove ten miles in silence, the country road canopied in electric green. I pressed my head against the glass to watch the new maple leaves curling in the breeze. Every few turns offered a tempting glimpse of Lake Champlain's choppy waters.