Quotes About Clouds

They talk about big skies in the western United States, and they may indeed have them, but you have never seen such lofty clouds, such towering anvils, as in Iowa in July.

The sky, drunk with spring and giddy with its fumes, thickened with clouds. Low clouds, drooping at the edges like felt sailed over the woods and rain leapt from them, warm, smelling of soil and sweat, and washing the last of the black armor-plating of ice from the earth.

Por la ventana se veían los largos regueros de lágrimas del crepúsculo en las negras mejillas de las nubes.

Le ciel bleu-vert pendait presque jusqu'au pavé et de grandes taches blanches marquaient sur le sol la place où des nuages venaient de se fracasser. (p. 220)

I remember how the smell of the rain that pervaded the streets did not die away as I entered, but somehow intensified; inside the house there was a smell of rain, clouds and air, a smell of limitless space. A smell of the sea.

Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?

Over your body the clouds go High, high and icily And a little flat, as if they Floated on a glass that was invisible. Unlike swans, Having no reflections; Unlike you, With no strings attached. All cool, all blue. Unlike you You, there on your back, Eyes to the sky.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering Blue and mystical over the face of the stars Inside the church, the saints will all be blue, Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews, Their hands and faces stiff with holiness. The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild. And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence.

I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps out Looking, with its hooks, for something to love. I am terrified by this dark thing That sleeps in me; All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity. Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?

I fixed my eyes on the largest cloud, as if, when it passed out of sight, I might have the good luck to pass with it.

The photographer fiddled with his hot white lights. 'Show us how happy it makes you to write a poem.' I stared through the frieze of rubber-plant leaves in Jay Cee's window to the blue sky beyond. A few stagey puffs were traveling from right to left. I fixed my eyes on the largest cloud, as if, when it passed out of sight, I might have the good luck to pass with it.

Clouds pass and disperse. / Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? / Is it for such I agitate my heart? — Sylvia Plath, from "Elm," The Collected Poems (HarperPerennial, 1992)

The sheep know where they are, Browsing in their dirty wool-clouds, Gray as the weather. The black slots of their pupils take me in. It is like being mailed into space, A thin, silly message. They stand about in grandmotherly disguise, All wig curls and yellow teeth And hard, marbly baas.

What's the light of Heaven look like on earth? Like sunlight streaming through clouds in the tackiest garage sale painting you ever saw. Really, it's so beautiful it's embarrassing. No subtlety whatsoever.

She hurried to the front door, opened it, and stepped onto the porch. Dark cumulus clouds hovered low over the town, and a warm wind whipped through the trees, carrying stray leaves and dust through the street.

Openings come quickly, sometimes, like blue space in running clouds. A complete overcast, then a blaze of light....

This is my vision-what I imagine I'll pass through on my way to the light. The blue sky, the clouds, the rays of light.

I am the road running through Paris," says the Seine. 'I have carried off many images since you were a child and reflected many clouds. I am changeable, but as people are: I have my moments of happiness in the June dawn and my sinister times some December evenings. Above all I am inquisitive - you call it being in flood. We have something in common, you everlasting passers-by and I, the fleeing water, which is that we never go back: your time is my space.

There was so much feeling in the world. So much sadness. So much longing. So much joy. Everything had a soul. The petals of flowers. The mice of the field. The clouds and rain and the bare limbs of trees. All

Sunset was an hour off but the clouds were hanging low, sponging up the last of the light.

No sooner did the thirsty bird With parching throat complain, Than forming clouds in heaven stirred And sent the streaming rain.

O Cloud, in all the lands you choose, gathering greater glory in the rains; may you never be parted from the lightning even for an instant.

For a second I was almost jealous of the clouds. Why was he looking to them for an escape when I was right here beside him?

The academy at Abidjan was my school of education. At 16, they sent me the boots and jersey with my name on the back. You can imagine how I felt: in the clouds.