Grammar is a tricky, inconsistent thing. Being the backbone of speech and writing, it should, we think, be eminently logical, make... perfect sense, like the human skeleton. But, of course, the skeleton is arbitrary, too. Why twelve pairs of ribs rather than eleven or thirteen? Why thirty-two teeth? It has something to do with evolution and functionalism--but only sometimes, not always. So there are aspects of grammar that make good, logical sense, and others that do not.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
Their empty victual-wagons up the street Over the bridge dreadfully sound and sway;... Their eyes, as hanged men's, turning the wrong way; And nothing on their backs, or heads, or feet. One sees the ribs and all the skeletons Of their gaunt horses; and a sorry sight Are the torn saddles, crammed with straw and stones.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, and Canada are the horns, the head, the neck, the shins, and the hoof of the ox, and the United States... are the ribs, the sirloin, the kidneys, and the rest of the body.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
For a hundred and fifty years, in the pasture of dead horses, roots of pine trees pushed through the pale curves of your ribs..., yellow blossoms flourished above you in autumn, and in winter frost heaved your bones in the ground--old toilers, soil makers: O Roger, Mackerel, Riley, Ned, Nellie, Chester, Lady Ghost.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
The hedge [of hawthorns] formed a type of suite of chapels disappearing under the wall of their flowers heaped as on an altar; und...er them, the sun placed on the ground a grid of light, as if it had come through a glass window; their fragrance was as smooth and as clearly defined in its form as if I had stood before the Virgin's altar, and the flowers, so ornamented, each distractedly held its dazzling bouquet of stamens, fine and shining ribs of flamboyant style like those which in the church line the ramp of the rood-screen or the mullions of stained-glass windows and which bloomed into the white flesh of strawberry blossoms.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
Why do I yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair... And make my seated heart knock at my ribs Against the use of nature?LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
You that do search for every purling spring Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows,... And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows Near thereabouts into your poesy wring; You that do dictionary's method bring Into your rhymes, running in rattling rows;LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
At length I entered within the skirts of the cloud which seemed forever drifting over the summit, and yet would never be gone.... ...It reminded me of the creations of the old epic and dramatic poets, of Atlas, Vulcan, the Cyclops, and Prometheus. Such was Caucasus and the rock where Prometheus was bound. Ãâ schylus had no doubt visited such scenery as this. It was vast, Titanic, and such as man never inhabits. Some part of the beholder, even some vital part, seems to escape through the loose grating of his ribs as he ascends. He is more lone than you can imagine. There is less of substantial thought and fair understanding in him than in the plains where men inhabit. His reason is dispersed and shadowy, more thin and subtle, like the air. Vast, Titanic, inhuman Nature has got him at disadvantage, caught him alone, and pilfers him of some of his divine faculty. She does not smile on him as in the plains. She seems to say sternly, Why came ye here before your time? This ground is not prepared for you. Is it not enough that I smile in the valleys?LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »