Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Bristling. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Bristling Quotes And Sayings by 90 Authors including William Faulkner,Edna St. Vincent Millay,Dinty W. Moore,Alan Garner,Bree Despain for you to enjoy and share.
How do our lives ravel out
into the no-wind, no-sound,
the weary gestures wearily recapitulant:
echoes of old compulsions with no-hand on no-string:
in sunset we fall into furious attitudes,
dead gestures of dolls.
Catch from the board of beauty/ Such careless crumbs as fall.
Kaethe Schwehn's poignant memoir explores longing, both spiritual and physical, community and faith, in prose that is calm, lovely, and filled with clear-eyed honesty and grace. Tailings is simply an exquisite book.
The walls were shedding their texture and taking another in the pouncing feathers. Gwyn
You Bedazzled my stake?
Loaming is my special word for it..it's a combination of looming and roaming
The fetters have burst
Toppling face first into a neat, fresh pile of Danny the carthorse's nuggets.
howling alternately
I am choking in the suffocating foul air of the harbor. I want to hoist my sails in the open sea, even though a tempest may be blowing. Furled sails are always dirty. Those who would deride me are so many furled sails. They can do nothing.
Weaving olden dances; mingling hands and mingling glances.
Breakin' hearts and blowin' minds! or blowin' something,
If everybody floated with the tide of talk, placidity would soon end in stagnation. It is the strong>strongstrong> backward stroke which stirs the ripples, and gives animation and variety.
If some beggar steals a bridle he'll be hung by a man who's stolen a horse.
The Bane
... where coxswain's dirt
and seaman's shirts
brushed bawdily upon her chest ...
That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself And falls on th' other.
rise of frustration.
Bustle, Sophronia, is not industry, as you very well know; people flutter and bustle about like a hen raising ducks, and then complain that their work has killed them, when it was the fuss that was the killing cause.
A burthen cheerfully borne becomes light
Support cripples ability, pity smothers courage,
But criticism glistens rusted brilliancy.
Holding onto Midge's shirt so he isn't carried off in the wind, we
Tricks ripped and you tripped, tricked yourself by falling slowly.
I'm the winner in this game,
unable to stoop to your level of shame.
Unwilling to reply to your words of ache.
The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare? For this your locks in paper durance bound, For this with tort'ring irons wreath'd around? 100 For this with fillets strain'd your tender head, And bravely bore the double loads of lead?
Hello, Capustan. The Bridgeburners have arrived.
Oooh, look, a Blibbering Humdinger!
elephant's trumpeting
So shaken as we are, so wan with care,
Find we a time for frighted peace to pant
And breathe short-winded accents of new broils
To be commenced in stronds afar remote.
Jolly boating weather,
And a hay harvest breeze,
Blade on the feather,
Shade off the trees.
Briar Rose awakens to grace us with her gentle presence once more."
"Shut up," says Vol.
"Your thorns are showing.
coming
down
with
something
going
away
with
nothing
I wonder that among all the evils deprecated in the Liturgy, no one thought of inserting flitting. Is there any worse thing? Oh no, no!
Fhat thouding do're.
Brabling Curres never want torne eares.
My little cup brims with tiddles.
Bein' cooped up indoors. The little finger waggled briefly.
Balefully at his figures, rumpling a hand through his
Oh, 'tis jesting, dancing, drinking
Spins the heavy world around.
Buggeration and Fuckery
Gloating is a superficial glowing, floating is an idle flowing, and bloatedness is the paralysis of blowing up; because silent movement results in loud victories.
We are completely saddled and bridled, and ... the bank is so firmly mounted on us that we must go where it will guide.
Bruges is a beautiful medieval city almost untouched by time. If you like jazz, you will be well catered for. If you like chocolate and beer, you will be in heaven.
Old longings nomadic leap, Chafing at custom's chain; Again from its brumal sleep Wakens the ferine strain.
Sir, he [Bolingbroke] was a scoundrel and a coward: a scoundrel for charging a blunderbuss against religion and morality; a coward, because he had not resolution to fire it off himself, but left half a crown to a beggarly Scotsman to draw the trigger at his death.
The lightly-jumping, glowrin' trouts, That thro' my waters play ...
Look, my friends!' he called. 'Here's a pretty hobbit-skin to wrap an elven princeling in! If it were known that hobbits had such hides, all the hunters of Middle Earth would be riding to the Shire.
Moonlight and high wind.
Dark poplars toss, insinuate the sea.
Here they come, a tilting! Five hundred mailed and belted knights on bicycles!
So comes a reck'ning when the banquet's o'er, The dreadful reckn'ning, and men smile no more.
As our dear Husband, in wooing his [church], received many a black stroke, so his bride, in wooing him, gets many blows, and in this wooing there are strokes upon both sides
Atop their gleaming backs the jockeys look like gaudy baubles, secured with strings. They bob up and down, they rise, lean forward, then settle again.
Shoveling food into his mouth. Thoughts came fluently, cogently:
tonguing her clit. I
Brooks too wide for our leaping, hedges far to high. Loads too heavy for our moving, burdens too cumbersome for us to bear. Distances far beyond our journeying. The horse gave us mastery.
dozing on horseback
smoke form the tea-fires
drifts to the moon
Lizzing is a combination of laughing and whizzing.
Farting, don't think, just fart.
Tail wagging like a windscreen wiper in a downpour.
OPERATION WAND-JACKING
Just for fun I flew in huge banking arcs, taking deep breaths, enjoying the feel of my newly weightless hair. The stylist had called it "wind tossed."
If only she knew.
Idiot wind, blowing every time you open your mouth.
I like hoofing you about.
Tumble me down, and I will sit
Upon my ruines (smiling yet
Teare me to tatters; yet I'le be
Patient in my necessitie.
Laugh at my scraps of cloathes, and shun
Me, as a fear'd infection:
Yet scarre-crow-like I'le walk as one,
Neglecting thy derision.
Crowns are hourly tumbling.
Going to pieces. To go to pieces so pointlessly and unnecessarily.
If everybody floated with the tide of talk, placidity would soon end in stagnation. It is the strong backward stroke which stirs the ripples, and gives animation and variety.
Being my lady on my arm and my slut between the sheets
Hoping to Fall Out:
Leaning out as far as she can, hoping she'll fall soon, so she can stop worrying about whether it will happen or not.
drenching his shirt with saltwater
The tannoy is crackling but I can only hear heavy breathing and snuffling.
...
Uh-oh, the tannoy is crackling again.
Sorry about that, ladies and gentlemen, I momentarily lost hold of my pie.
Knocking the shrieking goblins aside like skittles
a flayed body untangled
string by string and hung
to the wall, an agonized banner
displayed for the same reason
flags are.
There is much boasting among the young men about their teams as their horse and carts in Cleveland. Most of the Yorkshire men take as much delight in their ox draught as they used to do in their Horse Draught.
Corn wind in the fall, come off the black lands, come off the whisper of the silk hangers, the lap of the flat spear leaves.
You saw me bludgeoned by circumstance.
Lost, injured, hurt by chance.
I screamed to the heavens ... loudly screamed ...
Trying to change our nightmares into dreams ...
Dancing dismiss distress.
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, / Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost.
I'll listen, till my fancy hears
The clang of swords' the crash of spears!
These grates, these walls, shall vanish then
For the fair field of fighting men,
And my free spirit burst away,
As if it soared from battle fray.
But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain;
Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose,
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose.
Reason lies betweene the spurre and the bridle.
[Reason lies between the spur and the bridle.]
Ducking around twisted trees whose fingers are branches spread like cracked ceilings under gray sky.
Daring life, graceful living.
The sport and game of angling is the true means and cause that brings a man into a merry spirit, which makes a flowering age and a long one.
When if or chance or hunger's powerful sway Directs the roving trout this fatal way, He greedily sucks in the twining bait, And tugs and nibbles the fallacious meat. Now, happy fisherman; now twitch the line! How thy rod bends! behold, the prize is thine!
Fight, gentlemen of England! fight, bold yeomen!
Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head!
Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood;
Amaze the welkin with your broken staves!
'Twas merry when You wagered on your angling, when your diver Did hang a salt fish on his hook, which he With fervency drew up.
Its the shingaling, baby!
Tully/Ysolde: "Brom?" I asked, releasing his head. He reeled backwards for a moment, his eyes huge. "Are you all right?"
Brom: "I couldn't breathe," he said, giving my boobs a wary glance.
Finally, Gunner spoke, his voice so fluid and moving, it could have come from the river itself. I once hear a poem about angling. It say when you send out your line, it is like you cast out your troubles to let the current carry them away. I keep casting.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold
The Second Coming
Right at the beginning, before the pianist could get her wheels up and fly into that storm, she was hit with a con brio, which I figured meant she had to play either with brightness, with coldness, or with cheese.
Wafted by a favouring gale
As one sometimes is in trances,
To a height that few can scale,
Save by long and weary dances
Soon shall thy arm, UNCONQUER'D STEAM! afar
Drag the slow barge, or drive the rapid car;
Or on wide-waving wings expanded bear
The flying-chariot through the fields of air.
Youth is slipping, dripping, pearl on pearl, away.
Behold the threaden sails,
Borne with the invisible and creeping wind,
Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow'd sea,
Breasting the lofty surge
Our bells are worn threadbare with ringing for victories
Smack me if we ever get that awful."
"But I strong>sstrong>mack you strong>sstrong>o often," strong>sstrong>he strong>sstrong>aid, "how will you know that'strong>sstrong> what I'm strong>sstrong>macking you for?"
"We strong>sstrong>hall work out a strong>sstrong>macking code.
Brioches are a light, pale yellow, faintly sweet kind of muffin with a characteristic blob on top, rather like a mushroom just pushing crookedly through the ground. Once eaten in Paris, they never taste as good anywhere else.
Give me a moment I am preparing to drawback to scream
Louder than a train overhead below a railroad bridge
Groop I implore thee," continued the merciless Vogon, "my foonting turlingdromes.
When the heartstrings, which contentment has silenced, like a harp laid by, yearn to be plucked and sounded again by some hand, however rough, even if it should break them;