Quotes About Weaving

Who can dream of God? This man did. In his dreams God was much occupied. Spoken to He did not answer. Called to did not hear. The man could see Him bent at his work. As if through a glass. Seated solely in the light of his own presence. Weaving the world. In his hands it flowed out of nothing and in his hands it vanished into nothing once again. Endlessly.

Who can dream of God? This man did. In his dreams God was much occupied. Spoken to He did not answer. Called to did not hear. The man could see Him bent at his work. As if through a glass. Seated solely in the light of his own presence. Weaving the world. In his hands it flowed out of nothing and in his hands it vanished into nothing once again. Endlessly. Endlessly.

Selbst meine Gro?mutter muss das Goldene Garn respektieren. Aber sie wollte sein Kleid so sehr.

She was to be content to weave a steady life with him, all one fabric, but perhaps brocaded with the occasional flower of an adventure. But how could she know what she would feel next year? How could one ever know? How could one say Yes? for years and years? The little yes, gone on a breath! Why should one be pinned down by that butterfly word? Of course it had to flutter away and be gone, to be followed by other yes's and no's! Like the straying of butterflies.

Was it actually her destiny to go on weaving herself into his life all the rest of her life? Nothing else? Was it just that? She was to be content to weave a steady life with him, all one fabric, but perhaps brocaded with the occasional lower of an adventure. But how could she know what she would feel next year? How could one ever know? How could one say Yes? for years and years? The little yes, gone on a breath! Why should one be pinned down by that butterfly word?

The Analytical Engine weaves algebraical patterns just as the Jacquard loom weaves flowers and leaves.

O, the tangled web we weave, When first we practice to deceive.

sprightly little yellow butterflies flitter their aërial dance in pairs through tireless mud dauber paths and webs sway vacant in the breeze of poor spiders caught unawares

Clarimonde sitzt am Fenster und spinnt. Fäden, lange, dünne, unendlich feine Fäden. Sie macht ein Gewebe daraus, ich weiß nicht, was es werden soll. Und ich kann nicht begreifen, wie sie dies Netz machen kann, ohne immer wieder die zarten Fäden zu verwirren und zu zerreißen. Es sind wunderliche Muster in ihrer feinen Arbeit, Fabeltiere und merkwürdige Fratzen.

The bike crunches along the gravel path, weaving around the potholes that could present danger to someone who didn't know the road like the back of their hand.

Some days they would talk all morning about exactly how warm Heaven might be. It could not be warm enough so that souls went naked, or could it? If souls went naked, then why all the weaving, and if there was no weaving then how did souls occupy themselves?

I have pulled threads from magic tapestries already woven and used them to weave my own cloth.

Every noble life leaves the fibre of it interwoven forever in the work of the world.

wove spiritual beliefs, cultural values, and historical

Illusion works impenetrable, Weaving webs innumerable; Her gay pictures never fail, Crowd each other, veil on veil; Charmer who will be believed By man who thirsts to be deceived.

People believed that whenever Helen cut a thread in her wool, a man died on the battlefield.

You can weave your life so long—only so long, and then a thing in the world out of your control will tug at one vital thread and leave you patternless and subdued.

You can weave your life so long—only so long," Coren says to Sybel, "and then a thing in the world out of your control will tug at one vital thread and leave you patternless and subdued.

Les lois de la physique c'est la toile que Dieu a tissée pour peindre son chef-d'oeuvre.

But when the self—not a fictional character—is the landscape of the story, we can't afford to be blind to our own themes and the strands weaving through them. And so we must make a map, even as the ground shifts beneath us. This is, of course, not only a literary problem. —

Joy and woe are woven fine, a clothing for the soul divine. Under every grief and pine, runs a joy with silken twine.

When you begin to weave your own desires into your vision, the true seeing is taken from you.

We sleep, but the loom of life never stops, and the pattern which was weaving when the sun went down is weaving when it comes up in the morning.

Translation is the other side of a tapestry.