Quotes About Clouds

Outside the leaves on the trees constricted slightly; they were the deep done green of the beginning of autumn. It was a Sunday in September. There would only be four. The clouds were high and the swallows would be here for another month or so before they left for the south before they returned again next summer.

me being no one in the air nothing but clouds in the moonlight with humans fucking underneath… .

She would send me pictures of the sky, big blue western skies with little lumps of white cloud in them, and she'd write: The cloud in the middle is my pet unicorn. Or: That cloud over the mountains is you hiding under a sheet. Once she sent me a picture of a mountain pool, a cloud reflected in it as if it were a mile-wide mirror, and texted: I want to hold you like the water holds the sky.

Clouds hid the peaks and only their flanks were visible beneath a murky ceiling.

Miércoles, 24 de abril Una parte del vapor alto ha caído en forma de rocío. El viento del Nordeste sopla con fuerza, el contorno superior de todas las franjas nubosas se disuelve en configuraciones flameantes, incluso salen de ellas columnas aisladas, igual que el humo que sale de la comida, pero que en lo alto volvían a colocarse en estratos, como si trataran de volver a adoptar su estado anterior.

Madness is not for everyone, but Maurice's proved the thunderbolt that dispels the clouds. The storm had been working up not for three days as he supposed, but for six years. It had brewed in the insecurities of being where no eye pierces, his surroundings had thickened it. It had burst and he had not died. The brilliancy of day was around him, he stood upon the mountain range that overshadows youth, he saw.

Madness is not for everyone, but Maurice's proved the thunderbolt that dispels the clouds.

But here by the mill the castled clouds Mocked themselves in the dizzy water...

Lightning streaks like gunfire through the clouds, volleys of thunder shake the air.

Lavender clouds sail like a fleet of ships across the pale green dawn; each cloud, planed flat on the wind, has a base of fiery gold.

The Buddha-nature which is ours from the very beginning is like the sun which emerges from the clouds, or like a mirror which, when rubbed, regains its original purity and clarity. (217)

Old Mrs. Whiton stopped waving. She stood on the steps of the old house, looking up at the sky, where clouds were piling in the northeast. That meant a storm was coming, and old Mrs. Whiton's eyes flashed. She liked storms. They were a challenge to her. She went into the house, and soon her typewriter keys were clacking wildly, furiously, as though the storm were already there and she were racing the wind of it.

Gray skies are just clouds passing over.

Who covereth thyself with light as a garment: who stretchest out the heavens like a curtain: Who layeth the beams of his chambers in the waters: who maketh the clouds his chariot: who walketh upon the wings of the wind: Who maketh his angels spirits: his ministers a flaming fire: Who laid the foundations of the earth, that it should not be removed for ever.

Did time move forward, through people, or did people move through it like clouds across the sky?

The moonlight shines and billows; the broken clouds scud above the trees. Leaves fly everywhere. But the moonlight stays unmoved by the wind, passing through clouds, through air, in what seems to Werner like impossibly slow imperturbable rays. They hang across the buckling grass. Why doesn't the wind move the light?

Right now the shadows of clouds are dragging across it, and patches of sunlight are touching down everywhere.

But the moonlight stays unmoved by the wind, passing through clouds, through air, in what seems to Werner like impossibly slow, imperturbable rays. They hang across the buckling grass. Why doesn't the wind move the light?

Bright spring clouds cruise above them like vessels sailing to a parallel war...

The years passed as clouds do, ephemeral and vaporous, condensing, sliding along awhile, then dispersing like ghosts.

Exalted daughter of Zeus," I said, "I beg you, say the magic incantation to deliver me from this form into another, so that I might fly to the city in the clouds where all needs are met and no one suffers and every day shines like the very first days at the birth of the world.

Clouds like those," he'd show her, "are called cumulus congestus. Each one is riding along on a big column of slowly cooling air. Like a big invisible ice-cream cone. That small cloud there probably weighs five hundred thousand pounds." "Nooo," she'd say. "It's floating—it weighs nothing." Still, she would not look away.

But he is learning. It is as if he is learning all over again how to put the world into words. A tree is an open hand shaken twice by your right ear; whale is three fingers dipped through a sea made by the opposite forearm. The sky is two hands touched above the head, then swept apart, as though a rift has formed in the clouds and you are swimming through them, into heaven.

I look up at John Paul's bedroom and think, If his bed is near the window, he can watch clouds soaring past the cupola - huge anvils of cumulus, pale and full of shoulders. The wind slowly tears them to shreds. Thin blades of light slip through and touch down everywhere.