Quotes About Wood

If you are baking a pie for your friends, and you read an article entitled 'How to Build a Chair' instead of a cookbook, you pie will probably end up tasting like wood and nails instead of like crust and fruity filling.

Louisville Slugger.

There was no beauty of the wood or field But she its fragrant bosom-secret knew, Nor any but to her would freely yield Some grace that in her soul took root and grew; Nature to her shone as but now revealed, All rosy-fresh with innocent morning dew, And looked into her heart with dim, sweet eyes That left it full of sylvan memories.

I am really not tired, which I almost wonder at; for we must have walked at least a mile in this wood. Do not you think we have? ' 'Not half a mile,' was his sturdy answer; for he was not yet so much in love as to measure distance, or reckon time, with feminine lawlessness.

You could be the Mega Mage of wizards. You could rule Minionfire. Do you really think so?' Yeah, but you'd have to make a deal with the wood elves.' I don't like the wood elves.' They're okay. They're misunderstood.

I don't know what to think of the coffin story. You have any more information on these coffins? Where they were originally purchased? What they look like? They're made of wood. About six foot long... If there's one thing I hate, it's a wise-ass bounty hunter. I showed him the picture. You're right, he said. They're made of wood, and they're about six foot long.

I imagined my soul taking in these words like silicated water in the Petrified Forest, turning my wood to patterned agate. I liked it when my mother shaped me this way. I thought clay must feel happy in the good potter's hand.

I still have never met Harry Saltzman, and was told he is quite unpleasant.

Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill: For there the mystical brotherhood Of sun and moon and hollow and wood And river and stream work out their will.

THE FIVE HUNDRED or so homes atop Acoma are still heated by wood, with mounded clay ovens outside that look like big beehives. The old timbered ladders, baked white by the sun, still rise to the top terraces, and there are deep footpaths along the tabletop of the rock. It is not a museum, but a living town, somewhat iced in time. The wind dominates all other sounds.

By the early estimates of the rangers, the fire had burned enough wood to provide timber for the whole nation for fifteen years.

Suddenly a dog bayed in the wood, and the dancers stopped, and going up two by two, knelt down, and kissed the man's hands. As they did so, a little smile touched his proud lips, as a bird's wing touches the water and makes it laugh. But there was disdain in it.

There was a drop of human blood in her, and in her father . . . it brought both of them visions at times, living dreams of the world beyond the wood. Her father had learned to ignore them, for they meant nothing to him. She, still learning words for her own world, did not make such distinctions: Everything was new, everything spoke to her and had a name; she had not yet learned that something could mean nothing.

There are three things that grow more precious with age; old wood to burn, old books to read, and old friends to enjoy.

The bleak autumn wind was still blowing, and the solemn, surging moan of it in the wood was dreary and awful to hear through the night silence. Issac felt strangely wakeful. He resolved, as he lay down in bed, to keep the candle alight until he began to grow sleepy; for there was something unendurably depressing in the bare idea of lying awake in the darkness, listening to the dismal, ceaseless moan of the wind in the wood. (The Dream Woman)

Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood's edge

The low, vaulted hallway was lined with dozens of museum cases, archaic-looking glass-fronted boxes made of brown wood. They looked awkward there, against the organic curves of the hallway's walls, as though they'd been brought in and set up in a line for some forgotten purpose. Dull brass fixtures held globes of white light at ten-meter intervals. The floor was uneven, and ... carpets had been put down at random. In some places, they were six deep, the floor a soft patchwork of handwoven wool.

My finger travels the longest carved line on the face, the thickest welt, up that face. From the base of the jaw all the way up the cheek, stopping just short of the abalone shell eye. These lines cut into the wood are meant to mimic the ancient facial tattoos that marked these ancestors as men, as warriors, as worthy of carrying their lineage back into the place of death and yet forward into the place of tomorrow.

The Tote End itself was demolished in the nineties. Sadly a monstrous IKEA store now stands in it's place. Where once tribes of youths performed their rites of passage and bodily fluids flowed in the name of love, hate and pride; Justin and Kate bicker over which wood flooring they should choose. It fucking kills me.

The desktop held a patina of hieroglyphs representing years of student boredom—names and initials gouged into the wood, blackened by grime and pencil, shellacked over, then cobwebbed again with another generation's imprint.

The air reeked of pine resin and the pitchy vinegar of wood ants.

Perhaps I blinked. Perhaps it was as simple as that. And in that tiny black gap which the brain disguises they'd dived into the wood.

On a dais in a London church, the Virgin Mary sits suprised by a rough crest of candlelight. The discomforture isn't in her expression but in the fluid form her carving takes, the way peaceful eyes rest in sockets that threaten to release them. Either the wood is eccentrically soft, or this sculpture remains a tree, alert (despite careful varnishing and a wide, warning ring of sacred space around it) to a propensity to burn.

There are three things that grow more precious with age; old wood to burn, old books to read, and old friends to enjoy.