In front—a thing of air and wood—rose the climbing network of empty stands.
Once again a wood rose before us on the prairie, but it was still so distant that we could not hope to reach it before dark.
The wood rose towards the moor, growing thinner and thinner as it ascended.
A block of wood rose from the floor, he pulled it out, laid it noiselessly down, and inserted his hand into the opening.
On each side of both stem and stern broad strips of wood rose about four feet, having holes cut in them to shoot arrows through.
At the time of the passion the wood rose and floated on the surface.
At length, toward noon, wood rose again from the barren surface.
They make it easier for us, as Emerson says, to "love the wood rose and leave it on the stalk."