quote by Brunonia Barry

There is lace in every living thing: the bare branches of winter, the patterns of clouds, the surface of water as it ripples in the breeze.... Even a wild dog's matted fur shows a lacy pattern if you look at it closely enough.

— Brunonia Barry

Skyrocket Bare Branches quotations

Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light.


Bare branches quote A leader is best when people barely know he exists, when his work is done, his a
A leader is best when people barely know he exists, when his work is done, his aim fulfilled, they will say: we did it ourselves.

Like a fierce wind roaring high up in the bare branches of trees, a wave of passion came over me, aimless but surging . . . I suppose it's lust, but it's awful and holy like thunder and lightning and the wind.

Bare branches quote Truth walks bare foot. Lies keep switching shoes
Truth walks bare foot. Lies keep switching shoes

Sensing us, the trees tremble in their sleep, The living leaves recoil before our fires, Baring to us war-charred and broken branches, And seeing theirs, we for our own destruction weep.

The later rain,--it falls in anxious haste Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare, Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste, As if it would each root's lost strength repair.

On a bare branch a crow is perched - autumn evening


Bare branches quote A fitness journey is like grabbing a rose from a thorn bush with your bare hands
A fitness journey is like grabbing a rose from a thorn bush with your bare hands; You might feel pain, but that will be nothing in comparison to the joy of reaching your goal.
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Winter then in its early and clear stages, was a purifying engine that ran unhindered over city and country, alerting the stars to sparkle violently and shower their silver light into the arms of bare upreaching trees. It was a mad and beautiful thing that scoured raw the souls of animals and man, driving them before it until they loved to run. And what it did to Northern forests can hardly be described, considering that it iced the branches of the sycamores on Chrystie Street and swept them back and forth until they rang like ranks of bells.

Rough wind, that moanest loudGrief too sad for song;

Wild wind, when sullen cloudKnells all the night long;Sad storm, whose tears are vain,Bare woods, whose branches strain,Deep caves and dreary main, - Wail, for the world's wrong!

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,Whether the summer clothe the general earth with greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing between the tufts of snow on the bare branch Of mossy apple tree.

How torturous is the "churchly" language one must speak in church - the tone, style, habit. It is all artificial; there is a total absence of a simple human language. With what a sigh of relief one leaves this world of cassocks, and kissing and church gossip. As soon as one leaves, one sees: wet bare branches, fog which floats over fields, trees, homes. Sky. Early dusk. And it all tells an incredibly simple truth.

Enormous morning, ponderous, meticulous;

gray light streaking each bare branch, each single twig, along one side, making another tree, of glassy veins.


Spend your brief moment according to nature's law, and serenely greet the journey's end as an olive falls when it is ripe, blessing the branch that bare it, and giving thanks to the tree that gave it life.

Only the soldier pines and sentinels still showed green;

the broadleaf trees had donned mantles of russet and gold, or else uncloaked themselves to scratch against the sky with branches brown and bare.

I've lived to bury my desires and see my dreams corrode with rust now all that's left are fruitless fires that burn my empty heart to dust. Struck by the clouds of cruel fate My crown of Summer bloom is sere Alone and sad, I watch and wait And wonder if the end is near. As conquered by the last cold air When Winter whistles in the wind Alone upon a branch that's bare A trembling leaf is left behind.

You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person died for no reason.

And at that moment a wind came out of the northwest, and entered the woods and bared the golden branches, and danced over the downs, and led a company of scarlet and golden leaves, that had dreaded this day but danced now it had come; and away with a riot of dancing and glory of colour, high in the light of the sun that had set from the sight of the fields, went wind and leaves together.