Quotes About Sun

The sun penetrates me soundlessly like a distant friend that stirs up my laziness, fertilizes it. We bring forth life.

And the moon never beams Without bringing me dreams And the sun never shines But I see the bright eyes I lie down by the side Of my darling My life, my life.

I learned that time manages the most painful partings for us. One has only to set the date, buy the ticket, and let the earth, sun, and moon make their passages through the sky, until inexorable time carries us with it to the moment of parting.

Whiteness is the color of death, you know, not black. Wetness is life, the breeder and shaper of life. In the beginning the sun was black. So all light was absorbed before it had a chance to return. And our dreams, then, were empty.

Allow his spirit to be peaceful, but allow it to roam free. Let him race up and down the slopes with the wind, let him trickle slowly through the canyons, let him spread completely and gracefully across the land with the setting sun. [He] deserved many things in this life he did not get, but he most assuredly deserves these things.

I knew then that when we had crested that final tortuos pass in the rocks and dropped down into this valley, we had crossed a threshold into another world, a world with its own sun and moon, and its own separate race of man.

The man with the open umbrella was the only person in Dealey Plaza with an open umbrella. Under the warm Texas sun, there was no reason to carry an open umbrella at that time.

In a few hours the world will resume itself, but for now we're in a pocket of silence. We're in the plasmapause, a place of equilibrium, where the forces of the earth meet the forces of the sun. I imagine it as a place of stillness, where the particles of dust stop spinning and hang motionless in deep space.

When the heart is open, good humor flows and the ego's rigidity melts like snow in the sun.

Hair that has been colored is susceptible to the sun. [...] Sun isn't kind to the skin either, even though a tan is so attractive. After a woman reaches thirty she should get her tan out of a bottle - with a good base - and protect her skin and hair from the direct rays of the summer sun.

The Winter solstice (you haven't lived if you haven't seen us running around in our skivvies, banging on pots and pans, shouting "Come back, sun! Goddammit, come back! Come back!

He sat in another season - spring time, maybe - beneath a separate sun whose rays ended at the periphery of her eyesight, her reality.

They emerged into the sun again, covered in dust. Birdie took deep breaths, relieved to be back out in the open. She looked at Grey, unsure what she wanted to communicate but sure that it was huge and that she was powerless. But Grey seemed to recognize fear when he saw it. And he simply reached forward and pulled Birdie to him. She sank against his chest. It felt different than Enrico's body. Taller and firmer. It felt safe.

Art boy is obviously intimidated. You're like the sun and he's squinting up at you, barely able to see because of your blinking radiance

She once told him about the mysterious trampled-down places found in fields, which the peasants superstitiously called werewolves' nests. Coming across one of these sites, she fell to her knees and buried her face in the flattened yellow grasses, hoping to inhale the odor of a werewolf, a csordásfarkas. As if his scent was a charm. She smelled nothing but hay burned by the afternoon sun.

We will not drink from the same cup - Neither water nor sweet wine is ours, We will not kiss as the sun goes up Or gaze at the night, on the sill, for hours. I breathe by the moon, you – by the sun

The first ray -- as the blessing of the Lord -- Across the face of the beloved did creep, Who, sleeping, went a little pale, And then again more tightly went to sleep. It seemed that warmth of ray of sun Appeared to him just like a kiss. And long with these my lips I have not touched The tan strong shoulder or the dear lips. And now, the deceased spirits in my long Disconsolate wandering along the way, I am now flying toward him as a song And I caress him with a morning ray.

Forgive me that I ignored the sun And that I lived in sorrow.

I will quietly in the churchyard Sleep on wooden boards in the sun, On the Sunday as guest to mother You will come, my dear one -- Through the river over the mountain Can't catch up to grown ones From afar, the sharp-eyed fellow, This my cross you'll recognize. I know, dear one, very little Can you now recall of me: Did not scold you, did not fawn you, Did not hold the cup to thee.

Sometimes a savage beauty lured me into the sun and I would start to love the danger a little. On these occasions I felt the reluctant love drained painfully from me as blood drains from a deep wound. The tigers lapped my love's blood and remained enemies. The inhabitants of the day laughed at the gift I wanted to bring them, and I shut myself in my inner room to escape the betrayal of their arrogant mouths.

Below, the fjord was an impossible icy volcano erupting the baleful fire of the swallowed sun.

But now my soul, unused to stretch her powers In flight so daring, drops her weary wing, And seeks again the known accustomed spot, Drest up with sun, and shade, and lawns, and streams, A mansion fair, and spacious for its guest, And full replete with wonders.

The men you meet can't do you any harm: ghosts from a life in which wind and sun existed—these good things they no longer remember. They creep or climb or stagger: that is their way of moving. They speak very little; they are no longer Neapolitans, or anything else.

When I see you plodding along through the rain in dull, drab mackintoshes, with your noses tucked into your collars, I long to offer you a little advice. It is this: fight the weather with contrasts ... You must create an artificial sun to replace the one who has hidden himself. So why not a brighter note in your dress instead of the eternal grey, black, brown or navy?