Quotes About Dusk

Ã…Å¡wiat siÄ™ zmienia, sÅ'oÅ"ce zachodzi, a wódka siÄ™ koÅ"czy.

In that hush between the dying gold in the northwest and the growing dusk all round him, with one star shining, he thought of a girl with dark hair and dark eyes who understood what one said. And who liked pigs. Oh love! oh fire!

The sun sank like a dull-glowing copper ball into a lake of fire. The blue of the sea merged with the blue of the sky, and both turned to soft dark velvet, clustered with stars and the mirrors of stars.

In vanishing, Margot Bamborough had assumed in Strike's mind the insubstantiality of a wraith, as though it had always been predestined that she would one day disperse into the rainy dusk, never to return.

She ran to the window to catch every sunset, each one a miracle, different every day, entrancing long after darkness had sucked the last ounce of color out of the indigo sky.

The sky, at sunset, looked like a carnivorous flower.

Each day recapitulates the history of the world, coming up out of darkness and cold into confused light and beginning warmth, consciousness blinking its eyes somewhere in midmorning, awakening thoughts a jumble of illogic and unattached emotion, and all speeding together toward the order of moontide, the slow poignant decline of dusk, the mystical vision of twilight, the end of entropy that is night once more.

Long shadows of evening creep up the walls, inching closer. Gradually, they reach fully across us, holding us in the stillness that only night can bring. In the hazy gloom of dusk, we are silhouettes of ourselves, reduced to our very essence. The night grows bolder. Unafraid, it opens its mouth and swallows us whole.

Crepuscular

away from the window and the night descending upon Bakersville's streets.

Until the last glimmer of daylight.

When you go home from work at the end of the day, you sit on your small veranda, watching the day turns to dusk, nursing a cup of redbush tea in your hands, and wonder what on earth you can possibly do to help. "The Saturday big tent wedding party " page 41

I love a friendly chat and a friendly glass of wine during the evening - the time they call, for some accountable reason, 'between dog and wolf'.

I thought about love as we stood there, the day turning to dusk and the temperature dropping, and my heart, the one inside of me, become fuller.

the sun set . . . with guillotine-like speed this close to the equator.

Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.

It was dusk - winter dusk. Snow lay white and shining over the pleated hills, and icicles hung from the forest trees. Snow lay piled on the dark road across Willoughby Wold, but from dawn men had been clearing it with brooms and shovels. There were hundreds of them at work, wrapped in sacking because of the bitter cold, and keeping together in groups for fear of the wolves, grown savage and reckless from hunger.

She thought to herself how amazing it was that she was here, walking at dusk with an old pirate-her (italics), May! If only Somber Kitty could have seen her. Maybe he would see her, soon. The thought lifted her spirits.

As for the environment, that too, would object, backing up the pessimism of its people, which was what happened where I lived where the whole place always seemed to be in the dark. It was as if the electric lights were turned off, always turned off, even though dusk was over so they should have been turned on yet nobody was turning them on and nobody noticed either, they weren't on.

He Said... Your garden at dusk Is the soul of love Blurred in its beauty And softly caressing; I, gently daring This sweetest confessing, Say your garden at dusk Is your soul, My Love.

Brenda descended the great staircase step by step through alternations of dusk and rainbow.

The first lights of the evening were springing into pale existence. The Ferris wheel, pricked out now in lights, revolved leisurely through the dusk; a few empty cars of the roller coaster rattled overhead.

How the unforgettable faces of dusk would blend to her, the myriad footsteps, a thousand overtures, would blend to her footsteps; and there would be more drunkenness than wine in the softness of her eyes on his.

At the enchanted metropolitan twilight I felt a haunting loneliness