A Quote by Josephine Winslow Johnson

The dead elm leaves hung like folded bats. — © Josephine Winslow Johnson
The dead elm leaves hung like folded bats.
Leaves hung in the stillness like hands of the newly dead.
There is something in me maybe someday to be written; now it is folded, and folded, and folded, like a note in school.
I'll love you till the ocean Is folded and hung up to dry And the seven stars go squawking Like geese about the sky.
The dead are hard to look at. Their faces shimmer. They all look slightly angry or confused. they will come up to you and speak, but their voices sound like chatter, like bats twittering. Once they realize you can't understand them, they frown and move away. The dead aren't scary. They're just sad.
What shall I compare it to, this fantastic thing I call my Mind? To a waste-paper basket, to a sieve choked with sediment, or to a barrel full of floating froth and refuse? No, what it is really most like is a spider's web, insecurely hung on leaves and twigs, quivering in every wind, and sprinkled with dewdrops and dead flies. And at its centre, pondering forever the Problem of Existence, sits motionless the spider-like and uncanny Soul.
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.
I like to keep most of my bats. I think I have about 250 bats, including my first - which cost Rs 2000 - a gift from my dad in 1998, when I moved to the hostel.
You play 162 games so let's say 100 of them come down to the end where you see the game is out of reach one way or the other. I feel like the other 62 are close games so you're going to be into those at-bats. If you do that, that's 100 at-bats. That's almost a month worth of at-bats where you're not as focused as you might be in those 62.
I love bats! Women are scared of them. They think bats can get caught in their hair, don't they? But bats are the most beautiful of animals, extraordinarily delicate. Have you observed their brilliant little eyes, gleaming with intelligence, and their skin, silky as velvet? And look at all these delicate little bones.
I want to unfold. I don't want to stay folded anywhere, because where I am folded, there I am a lie, and I want my grasp of things to be true. I want to describe myself like a painting that I looked at closely for a long time, like a saying that I finally understood, like the pitcher I use every day, like the face of my mother, like a ship that carried me through the wildest storm of all.
Green leaves on a dead tree is our epitaph-green leaves, dear reader, on a dead tree.
There was a frosty rime upon the trees, which, in the faint light of the clouded moon, hung upon the smaller branches like dead garlands. Withered leaves crackled and snapped beneath his feet, as he crept softly on towards the house. The desolation of a winter night sat brooding on the earth, and in the sky. But, the red light came cheerily towards him from the windows; figures passed and repassed there; and the hum and murmur of voices greeted his ear sweetly.
Because of something told under the famished horn Of the hunter's moon, that hung between the night and the day, To dream of women whose beauty was folded in dismay, Even in an old story, is a burden not to be borne.
I think these are the most difficult games to win, just every at-bat, every pitch, it seemed like it was important. The at-bats that the Nationals had the entire series, it just felt like it was a constant 2-2, foul off three pitches, seven-pitch at-bats.
Be like a tree and let the dead leaves drop.
There was a frosty rime upon the trees, which, in the faint light of the clouded moon, hung upon the smaller branches like dead garlands.
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