Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Driftwood. 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 Driftwood Quotes And Sayings by 92 Authors including Frank Lloyd Wright,Dale Rex Coman,Bob Dylan,Gregg Boddy,Anthony Eden for you to enjoy and share.
Wood is universally beautiful to man. It is the most humanly intimate of all materials.
The charm of a woodland road lies not only in its beauty but in anticipation. Around each bend may be a discovery, an adventure.
In this age of fiberglass, I'm searching for a gem.
Cirrus sky hawk drift, blue haze in the autumn air, and my mouth is dry.
Drift is the demon of democracy.
Genesee beer. The great outdoors in a glass.
The seeds of a redwood are released from cones that are about the size of olives. The heartwood of the tree is a dark, shimmery red in color, like old claret. The wood has a lemony scent and is extremely resistant to rot.
version of Amber.
Wet catkins fur the twigs of a willow.
A rich smell of woodsmoke hung over the road.
This oak tree and me, we're made of the same stuff.
A wilderness of gilt, gleaming in the slant from the dust-furred windows: gilded cupids, gilded commodes and torchieres, and
undercutting the old-wood smell
the reek of turpentine, oil paint, and varnish.
A large, branching, aged oak is perhaps the most venerable of all inanimate objects.
Concurring hands divide
flax for damask
that when bleached by Irish weather
has the silvered chamois-leather
water-tightness of a
skin.
It was at the outskirts of the world that the Old Things accumulated, like driftwood round the edges of the sea. ("The Troll")
I am a willow of the wilderness,
Loving the wind that bent me.
You are the Lightwoods - you are all that is left of the Lightwoods.
Hickory dickory dock my daddy's nuts from shellshock.
through woodlots and agricultural fields.
The tree leaves rustled like that noise e-books make when you turn the page.
There is a love of wood, as of other things that do not answer to our touch.
Deadwood was a place created by a series of accidents. A kind of original sin.
There is a popular saying, "More rare than pine is the smell of pining" - which is rare indeed, for there are few pine trees in this part of the Ozarks.
The tranquility of my room partakes too much of Forest Lawn.
The pine is the mother of legends.
'Deadwood' was an incredible experience.
To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.
At first glance, northern hardwood and hemlock forests aren't very sexy - they are the accountants of the forest world, stable and consistent.
All through the hood, I'm grippin' wood and blowin' pine
Meat movies ... In which the horror rests with the idea of doing to humans what humans do each day to trees in their thousands." "Yes, as a symbol ... Close your eyes, Mrs. Cable. Close your eyes and shout 'timber'.
A true forest is not merely a storehouse full of wood, but, as it were, a factory of wood.
It seemed to Rand like years since there had not been firewood to split. But complaining would not keep the house warm, so he fetched the axe, propped up bow and quiver beside the chopping block, and got to work. Pine for a quick, hot flame, and oak for long burning.
There seemed to be no end to this wood, and no beginning, and no difference in it, and, worse of all, no way out
Nothing but trees.
The leaves, they run like mice, while birds peck at the ground. The wood has rotted in its bin. The grim axe has come round
I was just getting acquainted with the wood. I wanted to see if it was maple or pine.
What will the solemn Hemlock- What will the Oak tree say?
Nothing smelled so good or danced so well as a birch fire.
Pemberley Woods with some perturbation;
Like restless birds, the breath of coming rain
Creeps, lilac-laden, up the village street
Listen and listen good Log Lady. This wood fetish might be cute in Twin Peaks, but it sure ain't gonna cut it here.
Trackers and hunters sworn to deepwood with clan names like Forrester and Woods, branch and bole.
A brotherhood of venerable trees.
The ash her purple drops forgivingly
And sadly, breaking not the general hush;
The maple swamps glow like a sunset sea,
Each leaf a ripple with its separate flush;
All round the wood's edge creeps the skirting blaze,
Ere the rain falls, the cautious farmer burns his brush.
I?" the man said. "I am a drifter. A miscreant. The flame's last breath, made of smoke at its passing.
Metallic trees. That's new. If you see any steel dryads, be sure to tell me so I can run away screaming.
The trees that have it in their pent-up buds
To darken nature and be summer woods.
I was in danger of drowning, and nobody lost at sea worries about whether the spar they cling to is made of elm or oak.
Look for a tough wedge for a tough log.
Jolly boating weather,
And a hay harvest breeze,
Blade on the feather,
Shade off the trees.
ORANGE MARMALADE',
Of jackets that had their sleeves threaded onto two poles cut from an ash tree
Moonlight and high wind.
Dark poplars toss, insinuate the sea.
Winter reveals the massive, complex, muscular organization of the ancient oak. Like an old man stripped of his Savile Row, tailored suit - no less impressive in his mature nakedness.
George Sears, called Nessmuk, whose "Woodcraft," published in 1884, was the first American book on forest camping, and is written with so much wisdom, wit, and insight that it makes Henry David Thoreau seem alien, humorless, and French.
Green are the leaves I leave in Mirkwood.
All Lightwoods look the same to me -
I am a woodlander, I have sap in my veins,
If a tree falls in the forest and kills your ex-wife, what do you do with the lumber?
Midway in our life's journey, I went astray
from the straight road and woke to find myself
alone in a dark wood.
Ground. They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through a beautiful wood
You ever get into that shit again? Lotta trees behind Stonehaven. I'll string you up from one." "And let the crows peck at my corpse?" "Nah. Doesn't hurt if you're already dead.
Seductive pull of the forest, an open canvas for trouble.
Woodman, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, And I'll protect it now.
Clay Blaisdell Western
The answer is blowin' in the wind.
Music's a wood you walk through.
If you were a tree, what kind would you be?
Like piles of dry wood with red-hot coals underneath.
The crisp path through the field in this December snow, in the deep dark, where we trod the buried grass like ghosts on dry toast.
The category I come closest to is 'lumberjack hipster.'
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
Beeches stood aghast in pools of shed leaves. Silver poplars looked like moonbeams.
Carrying that lumber the forty meters from the forest had left his knuckles blistered, his underarms sopping, but now a few hours of flames had lifted what had taken him months to design, weeks to carry, days to build, all but the nails and rivets, all but the hinges and bolts, all into the sky.
He has an idea. For wood. Or Styron does. Something about boxcars." "Boxcars?" "A mess of them at the old yard." "That's good news. That's real good news." He smiled, and she braced herself for the three words that she knew would follow. "The Lord provides," he said. She felt
The spreading tree.
The tree is stripped,
All color, fragrance gone,
Yet already on the bough,
Uncaring spring!
It is not the finest wood that feeds the fire of Divine love, but the wood of the Cross.
Oh my gods, when do you not sport wood? There are bathrooms in the back, so go burp the worm or whatever.
Regin
I wish you were that birch rising from the clump behind you, and I the gray oak alongside.
On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;The wind it plies the saplings double, And thick on Severn snow the leaves.
Ducking around twisted trees whose fingers are branches spread like cracked ceilings under gray sky.
The merriment of everything from foot-high weeds to hundred-foot oaks, rustling in the wind - grave chuckling of maples and alders, titters from groves of sapling sassafras, silly giggling in the raspberry bushes, a huge belly laugh from the oldest hollow ash tree before the freeway interchange.
Freshly cut Christmas trees smelling of stars and snow and pine resin - inhale deeply and fill your soul with wintry night ...
I grew up with the smell of the lake and the feeling of the woods.
The water and the wind will wear the wood down, until only water and wind remain.
How curious that sometimes objects became more beautiful as they weathered the storms and traumas of the world. What caused some wood to rot and decay into nothing, while other pieces of wood became burnished, splendid, and tougher under the relentless assault of the pounding ocean current?
The scent of trees was in the air.
Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
Ground, impaled on the trunk of a tree that has been shaved down to the point of
You're one of us now. Rosewoods look after each other.
Below birds crossing the lake of the sky
and purple martins on power lines, down
to the trees and one thing my brother said
that stays with me from Long Island to Vermont,
something about trees being conductors
of spirit ...
Built like an oak tree, against which I could pitch my pillow and read; mornings, I could curl into the crook of your branches.
Simple, like uncarved wood.
The soft light of morning falls upon ripening forests of oak and elm, walnut and hickory, and all Nature is thoughtful and calm.
Sagebrush is a very fair fuel, but as a vegetable it is a distinguished failure. Nothing can abide the taste of it but the jackass and his illegitimate child the mule.
The heavy trees,
The grunting, shuffling branches, the robust,
The nocturnal, the antique, the blue-green pines
Deepen the feelings to inhuman depths.
Nuzleaf Grass/Dark
We all have forests on our minds. Forests unexplored, unending. Each one of us gets lost in the forest, every night, alone.
Willow trees, willow trees they remind me of Desdemona
I'm so damned literary
and at the same time the waters rushing past remind
me of nothing