Sentence examples for freshet from inspiring English sources

The impact that this freshet of extinctions would have on the biosphere is akin to receiving a box of engine parts and discarding a portion of them before reading the directions, assuming that their absence will have no negative repercussions on the running of the engine.

The trickle of commentaries, if not yet a flood, is becoming a freshet.

This gifted communicator should use his next freshet of words on behalf of a durable immigration law, a sensible gun fix and some measures to counter the view of a narrow majority of citizens who now believe our best days are behind us.

"One of the most heartening things about America in 1947 is the spring freshet of enthusiasm for native balladry and folklore that is running through the country from coast to coast," Mr. Lomax wrote in The New York Times.

Predictably, this has produced a freshet of populist outrage.

By R. P. Lister The New Yorker, July 19 , 1952P. 59 The freshet springs from woodland cleft, View Article By Rivka Galchen By Ceridwen Dovey By Larissa MacFarquhar By Jia Tolentino.

A few miles outside Broome, a road labelled Great Northern Highway turned into a meagre sliver of bitumen; it was frequently submerged by sparkling freshets of water that peeled backward, like breaking waves, against the vehicle's immense wheels.

In a way, O'Hara was going straight at something that has become a core quandary of contemporary poetry: How, in a texting, tweeting age that finds us drowning in freshets of language, do you deliver that stab of surprise?

Writers in their youth generally have more direct access to childhood, with its freshets of sensation and revelation.

Working as a journalist did not beat the poet out of her – Brooks's fiction is frequently beautiful, poetic at times, packed full of sentences to relish aloud – a river of "water as unlike our clear fast-flowing freshets as a fat broody hen to a hummingbird" in March; the hero who "walked through the woods like a young Adam, naming creation" in Caleb's Crossing.

The emotion, somehow, was in the commas and the dashes, and in the spaces between the words, and in the silences, and in the sibilant at the end of the last word of poem, a word which seems to hang there, not to end, or not to end too easily: the munching cows, the iris, crisp and shivering, the water still standing from spring freshets, the yet to be dismantled elms, the geese".