Quotes About Clouds

Sloping as gracefully as thighs, the foothills narrow to this, clouds over every town finally indicate the stored destruction.

There is no love without loss. I hear the drums that vibrate to the heartbeat of the earth. They set me dancing. I see the clouds that wreathe the summits. They set me dreaming. I know the wonder of waves that shake the headlands. They awaken my soul. I hear the screams of eagles on the wind. And I ponder, what are these things to me who loves and does not reckon loss? Do I not keep the earth?

When scattered clouds are resting on the bosoms of hills, it seems as if one might climb into the heavenly region, earth being so intermixed with sky, and gradually transformed into it.

BE Lost On a painted sky Where the clouds are hung For the poet's eye You may find him If you may find him There On a distant shore By the wings of dreams Through an open door You may know him If you may

In confidence we lay our cause before the whole world. Whether we win or whether we die, freedom will rise in Africa like the sun from the morning clouds.

Truth will rise like the sun from the morning clouds!

The cloud cover was heavy and multilayered, shades of slate blue and silver, pearl and charcoal, like a sketch washed with watercolour.

Hild looked deeper, letting her mind sink into the glimmer and shadow, as she might in the world, looking at the leaves, or lying on her back watching the clouds, letting the thoughts come, letting the things she already knew arrange themselves in a pattern, a story that other might call a prophecy.

Wer Schmetterlinge lachen hört, der weiß wie Wolken schmecken.

Sometimes I go about pitying myself, and all the while I am being carried across the sky by beautiful clouds.

The Tao is in the Passage rather than the Path. It is the spirit of Cosmic Change,--the eternal growth which returns upon itself to produce new forms. It recoils upon itself like the dragon, the beloved symbol of the Taoists. It folds and unfolds as do the clouds. The Tao might be spoken of as the Great Transition. Subjectively it is the Mood of the Universe. Its Absolute is the Relative.

When clouds appear like rocks and towers, the earth's refreshed by frequent showers.

Low, dark clouds had been scudding across the sky all day, and now, late in the evening, they were rubbing their wet bellies against the hills.

The clouds were so low that one could hook onto them and let oneself be carried away to a distant land, to the south, to warmer climes. There one could jump down straight into the olive groves, or at least the vineyards in Moravia, where delicious green wine is made.

Here the sky hangs over us dark and low, like a dirty screen, on which the clouds are fighting fierce battles.

The clouds were so low that one could hook onto them and let oneself be carried away to a distant land, to the south, to warmer climes.

Each day I deceived myself, unlike you who could never deceive yourself. Anxiety was trapped in the depths of my heart, like a formation of black clouds I could not break free of.

Dark and appalling are the clouds of war and wickedness and we know not where to turn, but, Lord God, Thou reignest.

It is not true to say that God wants to teach us something in our trials. Through every cloud He brings our way, He wants us to unlearn something. His purpose in using the cloud is to simplify our beliefs until our relationship with Him is exactly like that of a child—a relationship simply between God and our own souls, and where other people are but shadows.

Within the sky-like empty mind, habitual tendencies and disturbing emotions are just like clouds and mist. When they appear, they appear within the expanse of empty mind. When they remain, they remain within the expanse of empty mind. And when they dissolve, they dissolve in that same expanse of empty mind.

But most often this was how she remembered it: gray and forbidding, with sharp-edged boulders covered by patches of snow and trees the color of lead against dank clouds that drifted like smoke through the mountains.

Her eyes were of the bluest black Like night sky with the clouds blown back

So spoke Grenouille the Great and, while the peasantry of scent danced and celebrated beneath him, he glided with wide-stretched wings down from his golden clouds, across the nocturnal fields of his soul, and home to his heart.

The genesis of my coat, made from fine wool, spinning backwards through the looms, onto the body of a lamb, a black sheep a bit apart from the flock, grazing on the side of a hill. A lamb opening its eyes to the clouds that resemble for a moment the woolly backs of his own kind.