Quotes About Clouds

Clouds blaze brilliant colors in a sky on fire.

Clouds tie-dye the night.

glowing ghost-clouds lit by a haunted moon

I rest in rainbows and I nest in clouds I'd live in raindrops if only I knew how

Chaos comes before all principles of order & entropy, it's neither a god nor a maggot, its idiotic desires encompass & define every possible choreography, all meaningless aethers & phlogistons: its masks are crystallizations of its own facelessness, like clouds.

All was darkness, and she had been full of fear and apprehension, and then the sun had peeped through the clouds once more.

Your soul is as delicate as a face in the clouds blown in a hurricane for hours and hours.

I love science, and the way it names and orders and classifies everything, from clouds to plants to stars. Even bones. Tibia, fibula, scapula, patella. Science makes everything so official-sounding, and so tidy. Unlike real life, which is often a mess.

What vague, delicious dreams, Born of this golden hour of afternoon, And air balm-freighted, fill the soul with bliss, Transpierced like yonder clouds with lustrous gleams, Fantastic, brief as they, and, like them, spun Of gilded nothingness!

Grey morning dulled the bay. Banks of clouds, Howth just one more bank, rolled to sea, where other Howths grumbled to greet them. Swollen spumeless tide. Heads that bobbed like floating gulls and gulls that floating bobbed like heads. Two heads. At swim, two boys.

Mirth is like a flash of lightning, that breaks through a gloom of clouds, and glitters for a moment; cheerfulness keeps up a kind of daylight in the mind, and fills it with a steady and perpetual serenity.

A work of art is static; and its value and its weakness lie in being so: but the tuft of grass and the clouds above it belong to our own travelling brotherhood.

I can be fascinated with very little things. The clouds stimulate my imagination, and sometimes I just sit somewhere and go on dreaming for a long time. Your head is also a computer. When you're dreaming, you are simulating a world in which you are living.

When I began to listen to poetry, it's when I began to listen to the stones, and I began to listen to what the clouds had to say, and I began to listen to others. And I think, most importantly for all of us, then you begin to learn to listen to the soul, the soul of yourself in here, which is also the soul of everyone else.

I understand the atmosphere better than I ever did before. You feel the thermals while paragliding. You are in the clouds. Chasing a storm puts you in front of the cloud, not a book. I hope to learn as I do these things.

We seem to inhabit a universe made up of a small number of elements-particles-bits that swirl in chaotic clouds, occasionally clustering together in geometrically logical temporary configurations.

I never saw sad men who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue We prisoners called the sky, And at every happy cloud that passed In such strange freedom by.

She's stopped the allowance... I tell you, Bertie, I've examined the darned clouds with a microscope, and if it's got a silver lining it's some little dissembler!

The morning is full of storm in the heart of summer. The clouds travel like white handkerchiefs of goodbye, the wind, travelling, waving them in its hands. The numberless heart of the wind beating above our loving silence. Orchestral and divine, resounding among the trees like a language full of wars and songs.

The clouds travel like white handkerchiefs of goodbye, the wind, travelling, waving them in its hands.

Outside the window, a bank of clouds appeared on the horizon, inching slowly across the sky, finally slipping across the Moon and blocking out its radiant light. As he clicked off his overhead light, he turned his eyes one last time to the heavens. Outside, in the newly fallen darkness, the world had been transformed. The sky had become a glistening tapestry of stars.

So hypochondriac fancies represent Ships, armies, battles in the firmament; Till steady eyes the exhalations solve, And all to its first matter, cloud, resolve.

The Ilyushkin 72 ascended through the kingdom of clouds like a steel dragon, powerful and proud. It roared up and away from the snowy private airstrip, leaving in its wake the black ribbon dividing the alpine snowfields of a classified mountain installation.

Fog is just clouds that have fell down