Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Reeds. 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 Reeds Quotes And Sayings by 95 Authors including Amy A. Bartol,Solomon Northup,George Pendle,Jennifer Echols,Herman Wouk for you to enjoy and share.
Reed, I should've protected myself against you, but I didn't and now you live here, inside of me," I say, pointing to my heart. "I won't ever be able to run from the love I have for you. Your name is written on my heart. I can't hide from it and it will wreck me if something happens to you -
woollyheads and silvergrays, and am unable to understand
Feathers!" spluttered Sargatanas. "Feathers are for the birds, my boy. Flaking, peeling, scale-ridden wings, now that's what real beings wear. I'll tell you a secret." He said, and drew me closer. "The eternal pain at having known Paradise and lost it is priceless. I wouldn't swap it for anything.
I turned to the clarinets. They were a resourceful lot.
screws on the cowlings. Only a divine miracle
Our backs hut from gathering them: how hard they were to find among the concealing leaves, the frosted deceiving grass.
An eye-jangling assortment of spurious clan tartans, adorning every conceivable object made of fabric, from caps, neckties, and serviettes down to a particularly horrid yellow "Buchanan" sett used to make men's nylon Y-front underpants.
All John Reed's violent tyrannies, all his sisters' proud indifference, all his mother's aversion, all the servants' partiality, turned up in my disturbed mind like a dark deposit in a turbid well.
Staplers--- Excellent source of iron
Soul of fibre and heart of oak.
Only in prayer do we achieve that complete and harmonious assembly of body, mind, and spirit which gives the frail human reed its unshakable strength.
The skin of moss / holds the footprints of / star-footed birds.
bushel of gold pieces;
studying some fronds
Earthly riches are like the reed. Its roots are sunk in the swamp, and its exterior is fair to behold; but inside it is hollow. If a man leans on such a reed, it will snap off and pierce his soul.
What precious drops are those, Which silently each other's track pursue, Bright as young diamonds in their faint dew?
a heavy, hooded wool
A
Round of fiddles playing Bach.
Reed says that God made a thousand, thousand worlds, each like this one, only different.
I hope there's one of them in which I chose to walk another path. But I fear that in any universe my path will be marked with blood.
strung a small white stone with a hole in it. 'This is more precious
How do you explain plastic to a medieval forest bard?
Kettle thingies. Yum.
Martyred plants from their shrouds. Their mouths
God made them as stubble to our swords.
Daffodils,
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty.
I shall weave a suit of leaves. At once. With acorns for buttons.
Music, the knife without a hilt,
Off in strata of porous rock by the leathery half-plant, half-animal little makers - and
Scottish bagpipe has two tenors and one bass - three drone pipes - and then the one chanter. If you put bagpipes together, it creates such a fine sound.
Never had Safi seen so many furled sails. Or circling sea gulls.
Cursed birds.
waistcoat-pocket,
Scholars, I plead with you, Where are your dictionaries of the wind, the grasses?
I raise Reed's crushed, gray feather into the air. With my dying breath, I utter a single word in Angel, Champion.
It is curious how in English embroideries there has always been a predilection on the part of the designers for interlacing stems, and for the inconsequent introduction of birds and beasts.
The thick plottens.
the distant cries of the seagulls
Fine feathers, they say, make fine birds.
Gray stones for Abnegation, water for Erudite, earth for Amity, lit coals for Dauntless, and glass for Candor.
We wail, batten, sport, clip, clasp, sunder, dwindle, die:
When ink joins with a pen, then the blank paper
can say something. Rushes and reeds must be woven
to be useful as a mat. If they weren't interlaced, the wind would blow them away.
Silenus or Nymphs and
Cicadas, buckling and unbuckling their stomach muscles, yield the sound of someone sharpening scissors. Fall field crickets, the thermometer hounds, add high-pitched tinkling chirps to the jazz, and their call quickens with warm weather, slows again with cool.
Life! What Inscrutable Card Shall Ye Throw Next Upon the Soft Felt of Our Days?
Kili and Fili rushed for their bags and brought back little fiddles; Dori, Nori, and Ori brought out flutes from somewhere inside their coats; Bombur produced a drum
Clarinets, like lawyers, have cases, mouthpieces, and they need a constant supply of hot air in order to function.
In the under-wood and the over-wood there is murmur and trill this day, For every bird is in lyric mood, And the wind will have its way.
A superb tenor voice, like a silver trumpet muffled in silk.
It is not only fine feathers that make fine birds.
Walls have tongues, and hedges ears.
What are the children of men, but as leaves that drop at the wind's breath?
An oak and a reed were arguing about their strength. When a strong wind came up, the reed avoided being uprooted by bending and leaning with the gusts of wind. But the oak stood firm and was torn up by the roots.
a furtive groove
I'm a fan of parchment and wood pulp.
Not the rich viol, trump, cymbal, nor horn,
Guitar, nor cittern, nor the pining flute,
Are half so sweet as tender human words.
What binds the fabric together when the raging, shifting, winds of change keep ripping away?
What is more gentle than a wind is summer?
Making knots. Making knots. No word. Making knots. Tick-tock. This is a clock. Do not think of Gale. Do not think of Peeta. Making knots.
A few days ago I walked along the edge of the lake and was treated to the crunch and rustle of leaves with each step I made. The acoustics of this season are different and all sounds, no matter how hushed, are as crisp as autumn air.
JOSS-STICKS- Small sticks burned by the Chinese in their pagan tomfoolery, in imitation of certain sacred rites of our holy religion.
A flock of seagulls rise and swoop above the black profile of the moor, and they are so luminous, so fragile, it would be easy to mistake them for shreds of paper.
Moonlight and high wind.
Dark poplars toss, insinuate the sea.
There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, grass, and wood-wind, on which St. John and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodaemoniacal ghastliness ...
I have to report to those of you who think diamonds make a difference that I cannot tell what it is. Seriously, as you all know, they make no difference at all. They just make the flute look a little more special.
There is a spirit in us that makes our brass to blare and our cymbals crash-all, of course, supported by the practicalities of trained lung power, throat, heart, guts.
The violinist must possess the poet's gift of piercing the protective hide which grows on propagandists, stockbrokers and slave traders, to penetrate the deeper truth which lies within.
Desperate pieces of string that hold us up but at the same time keep us from being anything other than what we have always been.
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects treachery?
Belt leather. Black pepper. Fine lace and bright feather. Tinker in town tonight, gone tomorrow. Working through the evening light. Come wife. Come daughter, I've small cloth and rose water.
It's not often for me that reality is better than fantasy. This is one of those times. Reed next to me, in my bed, breathing against my chest. She was the Diane Court to my Lloyed Dobler.
They'd been played. By a tuba!
I heard the sighing of the reedsAt noontide and at evening,And some old dream I had forgottenI seemed to be remembering.
Soft feathers cannot make a cruel bird kind
Of jackets that had their sleeves threaded onto two poles cut from an ash tree
Some syllables are swords.
What shell did not feel the sound waves and which bird did not face at least once the wind?
With their souls of patent leather, they come down the road. Hunched and nocturnal, where they breathe they impose, silence of dark rubber, and fear of fine sand.
Fieldes have eies and woods have eares.
Simple, like uncarved wood.
What are a handful of reasonable men against a crowd with stones in their hands?
A treble clef, for example, resembles a Muscovite or Leningrader in a bulky hooded parka. A bass clef bends as simply and painfully as a silhouetted widow in Leningrad drawing water from the whiteness of a frozen canal.
I have these knives in my chest that can't become words.
The little reed, bending to the force of the wind, soon stood upright again when the storm had passed over.
What's in that pipe that he's smoking?
To me, there is spirit in a reed. It's a living thing, a weed, really, and it does contain spirit of a sort. It's really an ancient vibration.
Our life is woven wind.
And the wind plays on those great sonorous harps, the shrouds and masts of ships.
This town of Sheffield is very populous and large, the streets narrow, and the houses dark and black, occasioned by the continued smoke of the forges, which are always at work: Here they make all sorts of cutlery-ware, but especially that of edged-tools, knives, razors, axes, &. and nails
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?
We are like violins. We can be used as doorstops, or we can make music.
Scrolls, notebooks, tablet computers, daggers, and a large bowl filled with jelly beans,
Pearls of wisdom need matching hearrings.
Through and through the inspired leaves,
Ye maggots, make your windings;
But, oh! respect his lordship's taste,
And spare his golden bindings.
Rain! whose soft architectural hands have power to cut stones, and chisel to shapes of grandeur the very mountains.
As I string, a swift rhythm is played out with my hands, a cadence known only to those who have strung tobacco. To many of the poor workers, the meter and rhythm of stringing tobacco is the only poetry they've ever known.
All this talk of folds and rods and buttons. Are we copulating or sewing draperies?
Fancy feathers make peacocks, but you pluck them and see what's left.
No wonder of it: sheer plod makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.
Trust in the inexhaustible character of the murmur.
Stone and blocks, like butter and bread.
A clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour of the game.