Quotes About Feet

Down the long and silent street, The dawn, with silver-sandaled feet, Crept like a frightened girl.

I am not going to Egypt,' said the bird. 'I am going to the House of Death.' He kissed the prince and fell down dead at his feet.

There was a silence. The evening darkened in the room. Noiselessly and with silver feet the shadows crept in from the garden. The colours faded wearily out of things.

Still, he could balance himself with one hand on an inverted ginger-ale bottle while revolving a barrel on the soles of his feet. There is good in all of us.

Your Feet When I cannot look at your face I look at your feet. Your feet of arched bone, your hard little feet. I know that they support you, and that your sweet weight rises upon them. Your waist and your breasts, the doubled purple of your nipples, the sockets of your eyes that have just flown away, your wide fruit mouth, your red tresses, my little tower. But I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me.

Find yourself a place in the universe,' she said, 'a place where the dirt feels like goodness under your feet. Take the right picture and a man will walk into it. If you can bear him even a little, then for a while let him stay.

The quest for the Holy Grail is the quest to kneel before the bones of Mary Magdalene. A journey to pray at the feet of the outcast one.

Hundreds of feet below, the cobblestone piazza beckons like a tranquil oasis. How

Love can smack you like a seagull, and pour all over your feet like junk mail.

Sun is shining. Weather is sweet. Make you wanna move your dancing feet.

And one of the interesting things about bound feet is that they never age.

Whereat, in terror what that sight might mean, I reeled and shivered earthward like a feather. And Death fell with me, like a deepening moan. And He, picking a manner of worm, which half had hid Its bruises in the earth, but crawled no further, Showed me its feet, the feet of many men, And the fresh-severed head of it, my head.

Delicate equilibrium of periodical filth between two moons balanced. Moons he said full and yellow as harvest moons her hips thighs. Outside outside of them always but. Yellow. Feet soles with walking like. Then know that some man that all those mysterious and imperious concealed. With all that inside of them shapes an outward suavity waiting for a touch to. Liquid putrefaction like drowned things floating like pale rubber flabbily filled getting the odor of honeysuckle all mixed up.

Our windows were dark. The entrance was empty. I walked close to the left wall when I entered, but it was empty: just the stairs curving up into shadows echoes of feet in the sad generations like light dust upon the shadows, my feet waking them like dust, lightly to settle again. I

what is it you have, or don't have, that you sit there completely self-contained, that you can sit and know . . . and know exactly where your feet are? Yes, that's what makes cats incredible, because you know they're aware every instant of where their feet are, and they know how much they have to share with other cats, they don't try to . . . pretend . . .

Suddenly, pacing by the water, he was overcome with astonishment. He found himself understanding the wearisomeness of this life, where every path was an improvisation and a considerable amount of one's waking life was spent watching one's feet.

He found himself understanding the wearisomeness of this life, where every path was an improvisation and a considerable part of one's waking life was spent watching one's feet.

But for all the feet that had trodden it, it remained ordinary dust, which seemed to make everything much sadder.

The boy with fair hair lowered himself down the last few feet of rock and began to pick his way toward the lagoon.

He forgot his wounds, his hunger and thirst, and became fear; hopeless fear on flying feet, rushing through the forest towards the open beach.

Suddenly, pacing by the water, he was overcome with astonishment. He found himself understanding the wearisomeness of this life, where every path was an improvisation and a considerable part of one's waking life was spent watching one's feet.

When she walked through the door, the sidewalk swayed beneath her feet as if blown by a light breeze, and she stumbled against Dells, who grabbed her before she could fall. "Whoopsy daisy," he said. "Beware of the sidewalk. It's meaner than it looks." "I like whiskey," Harper informed him solemnly. "But not this much whiskey.

Chinese authorities have seized 30,000 tons of what? Chicken feet. Because they're tainted. Well, there goes my cookout.

Reality is harsh to the feet of shadows.