Quotes About Clouds

It was like the heavy mass of clouds, which we may often see obscuring the sky, and making a gray twilight everywhere, until, towards nightfall, it yields temporarily to a glimpse of sunshine. But, always, the envious cloud strives to gather again across the streak of celestial azure.

I seed the clouds somewhere in the world, and bring a lamentation of rain. Because rain is the closest thing I have to tears.

Now he's far away, floating in the clouds, playing Scrabble with the Dalai Lama, but wouldn't you know it, all the tiles are in Tibetan.

He was brilliant at finding shapes in the clouds of his fury.

By nine o'clock all signs of land were gone, and the bright morning sky was dotted with occasional puffs of meandering clouds.

Le Poëte est semblable au prince des nuées Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer; Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées, Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher.

Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer; Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées, Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher.

Mes bras sont rompus pour avoir étreint des nuées.

there are policemen in the street and angels in the clouds

nothing in the air but clouds. nothing in the air but rain. each man's life too short to find meaning and all the books almost a waste. I sit and listen to them singing I sit and listen to them.

She sipped Scotch considerably older than she was, the taste of time in its passing, in harmony with the outer world, where poplars were already half bare and long grasses drooped burnt from the first frost. The call of an evening bird, and the sun low. Bands of lavender and slate clouds moving against a metallic sky, denoting the passage of autumn. Fallen leaves blown onto the porch. The planet racking around again toward winter.

It's good to know certain things: What's departed, in order to know what's left to come; That water's immeasurable and incomprehensible And blows in the air Where all that's fallen and silent becomes invisible; That fire's the light our names are carved in. That shame is a garment of sorrow; That time is the Adversary, and stays sleepless and wants for nothing; That clouds are unequal and words are.

Narrow road, wide road, all of us on it, unhappy, Unsettled, seven yards short of immortality And a yard short of not long to live. Better to sit down in the tall grass and watch the clouds, To lift our faces up to the sky, Considering—for most of us—our lives have been a constant mistake.

It was one of those days that I didn't mind going to school because the weather was so pretty. The sky was overcast with clouds, and the air felt like a warm bath. I don't think I ever felt that clean before.

As soon as I saw the script for 'Moonlight Drawn By Clouds,' I thought it was fun, and I really wanted to do it.

At the city, at the clouds . . . and, in his mind's eye

We reach out with our hands Brush away the clouds and pirce the sky To grab the moon and mars But we still can't reach the truth

Oh, Marx,' Amanda sighed. 'You're so melodramatic. So what if it's this way or that way? When I was in convent school I used to stare out the windows at the clouds. I used to chase butterflies in the Mother Superior's flower patch. Those clouds and those butterflies, they didn't know secular from religious--and they didn't care.' 'I'm neither a cloud nor a butterlfy,' I snapped. 'We're all the same as clouds and butterflies. We just pretend to be something different.

A few flat clouds folded themselves like crepes over fillings of apricot sky. Pompadours of supper-time smoke billowed from chimneys, separating into girlish pigtails as the breeze combed them out, above the slate rooftops. Chestnut blossoms, weary from having been admired all day, wore faint smiles of anticipation.

Every fifteen minutes or so the harvest moon would bleed through the tourniquet of cloud cover that conspired to squeeze every droplet of pictorial sentiment out of the Skagit landscape in order that a more refined Chinese moon might brush the countryside. In the aloof washes of moonlight no form seemed to stir.

We ransomed our dignity to the clouds.

The ordinary-sized stuff which is our lives, the things people write poetry about — clouds — daffodils — waterfalls — and what happens in a cup of coffee when the cream goes in — these things are full of mystery, as mysterious to us as the heavens were to the Greeks.

Did you ever see the way clouds love a mountain? They circle all around it; sometimes you can't even see the mountain for all the clouds. But you know what? You go up top and what do you see? His head. The clouds never cover the head. His head pokes through, because the clouds let him; they don't wrap him up. They let him keep his head up high, free, with nothing to hide him or bind him.

The color has faded out of the sky. It is grey, becoming darker as the world turns herself round a little more. The clouds are long and black and ragged, like the wings of stormbattered dragons.