Quotes About Wood

The elf nodded. From her saddlebow, she took a lute, a marvelous instrument of light, tastefully inlaid wood with a slender, engraved neck. Without a word, she handed the lute to Dandilion. The poet accepted the instrument and smiled. Also without a word, but his eyes said a great deal. "Farewell

My art is an attempt to reach beyond the surface appearance. I want to see growth in wood, time in stone, nature in a city, and I do not mean its parks but a deeper understanding that a city is nature too-the ground upon which it is built, the stone with which it is made.

For the church to act as if it dare not have any dealings with sinners is as much a betrayal of its mission as it would be for a hospital to turn away sick people or for a carpenter to refuse to touch rough-cut wood.

I had the idea that the world's so full of pain it must sometimes make a kind of singing. — Robert Hass, from "Faint Music," Sun Under Wood (HarperCollins, 1996)

and hot raw wood. There was a guy behind a counter, in worn blue overalls stained black with dirt. He was

It had maroon paint and exposed brick and scarred wood, and a chalkboard menu about ninety percent full of things that don't really belong in coffee, like dairy products of various types and temperatures, and weird nut-based flavorings, and many other assorted pollutants.

The shop across the light from the pay phone was representative. It had maroon paint and exposed brick and scarred wood, and a chalkboard menu about ninety percent full of things that don't really belong in coffee, like dairy products of various types and temperatures, and weird nut-based flavorings, and many other assorted pollutants.

I wish I could manage to be glad! the Queen said. Only I never can remember the rule. You must be very happy, living in this wood, and being glad whenever you like!

So she set the little creature down, and felt quite relieved to see it trot away quietly into the wood. 'If it had grown up,' she said to herself, 'it would have made a dreadfully ugly child: but it makes rather a handsome pig, I think.

She said a silent prayer of gratitude and went to the stove, making as little noise as possible, stirring the embers with a poker and then shoving in several sticks of the precious seasoned wood. When the stove was putting out noticeable heat again, she made her way to the hearth and repeated the process, feeling a certain primitive joy as the flames leaped up around the fresh logs, crackling cheerfully and spilling warmth over her bare feet.

At the very center of our culture is a crucified man, a tortured man hanging on a cross of wood. You have an image of violence at the very center of our spiritual investigation.

The outcome has already been established in the afterwords — hoc erat in votis! — just as the ash is already in the wood about to kindle.

A traditional house smelled of wood smoke, the earth, and of thatch; all good smells, the smell of life itself.

We were, when all was said and done, children lost in the wood, and to break into tears was the most understandable of reactions, the most quintessentially human one too.

To poke a wood fire is more solid enjoyment than almost anything else in the world.

Perfume is magic. It's mystery. We recreate the smell of a flower. Of wood. Of grass. We capture the essence of life. Liquefy it. We store memories. We make dreams.

The next time she scolded me, I said if I cleaned the table any more I would take the color out of the wood and Miss Kizer snapped back, "Cleanliness is next to Godliness and don't you forget it.

I'm happy. But some beauty is nonesuch - The gently sloping path across the wood, The wretched bridge that's just a little skewed And that, for which, I won't be waiting much.

But the wood has endured. In splinters and shavings, gorgeously encased, it has traveled the world over and found a joyous welcome among every race. For it states a fact. Hounds are checked, hunting wild. A horn calls clear through the covert. Helena casts them back on the scent. Above all the babble of her age and ours, she makes one blunt assertion. And there alone lies Hope.

Tread not into the fearsome night But pull the covers high, Step not into the wild dark wood For the Hobbers are dancing nigh

indication of any kind of violence whatsoever, just scratches on the exterior doors near the bottom of the wood, no doubt from the little mutt of a dog that was missing, though there was still water in a dish on the floor. Through

they were artists, the three of them. Makers of song, of wood, of threaded patterns. Because they were artists, they had some value that she could not comprehend. Because of that value, the three of them were here, well fed, well housed, and nurtured.

Into that charm and the gloom and the deep silence Oth moved gravely; and a solemness came on his face as he entered the wood; for to go on quiet feet through the wood was the work of his life, and he came to it as men come to their heart's desire.

I loved sitting on the pile of freshly cut logs, running my hands over the different shapes and smelling their woody fragrance. To this day I think that there is nothing as interesting to look at as a heap of newly cut logs, the delicate colouring of their veined insides telling their life story, while they wait to bring warmth and comfort.