Quotes About Sky

Passion sits on the skull Of Humanity, And this infidel enthroned Laughs shamelessly, And gaily blows round bubbles That will fly, As if to join with worlds Deep in the sky. Rising on high, the frail Luminous globe, Shatters and bursts its slim soul Like a dream of gold. I hear at each bubble, the skull Moan and contend: 'This vicious, ridiculous game, When will it end? What you are blowing away Again and again, You murderous fiend, is my body My blood and my brain!

The poet resembles this prince of cloud and sky Who frequents the tempest and laughs at the bowman; When exiled on the earth, the butt of hoots and jeers, His giant wings prevent him from walking.

The Sky; that black lid of a mighty pot, Where, vast and minute, human Races boil.

In the evening streamed down the radiant sun, That great eye which stares from the inquisitive sky. From behind the window that scattered its bright rays It seemed to gaze upon our long, quiet dinners, Spreading wide its candle-like reflections On the frugal table-cloth and the serge curtains.

we are burning like a chicken wing left on the grill of an outdoor barbecue we are unwanted and burning we are burning and unwanted we are an unwanted burning as we sizzle and fry to the bone the coals of Dante's 'Inferno' spit and sputter beneath us and above the sky is an open hand and the words of wise men are useless it's not a nice world, a nice world it's not ...

the grass melting and yelling on the top of the ground and those smokesweet pictures of bluegray putting the whole sky out of place and all the while nobody saying anything just watching what the flames did like something busted out finally and having its say we all came together.

La miré. Todo el cielo y toda la tierra corrían por aquellos ojos.

eu só quero que o Sol me queime mais e mais de tal modo que ele suba ao céu às seis da manhã e permaneça por lá até depois da meia-noite

Mostly the colors of that land stuck to shades of red dirt and black cinders with a few dashes of sickly green. And yet look up, and the sun burned yellow and the sky rolled blue and deep like an argument that the world had not gone wrong at all.

There in the highlands, clear weather held for much of the time. The air lacked its usual haze, and the view stretched on and on across rows of blue mountains, each paler than the last until the final ranks were indistinguishable from the sky. It was as if all the world might be composed of nothing but valley and ridge.

There was neither non-existence nor existence then; there was neither the realm of space nor the sky which is beyond. What stirred? Where? —THE RIG VEDA

There's a faint popping noise, and the entire wall of the incident room shifts to the colour of the night sky above a Japanese city.

Jupiter is a gibbous streaky horror riding across the zenith of the night black sky—it

All those nights looking up at the sky, wanting to be there, away from the grief of being here.

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.

THINGS HAVE ENDS AND BEGINNINGS" Cloud mountains rise over mountain range. Silence and quietness,                             sky bright as water, sky bright as lake water. Grace is the instinct for knowing when to stop. And where.

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.

The rainbow began to appear, and sometimes two rainbows, like a mother and her daughter, the one young and beautiful, and the other an old and faint shadow. The rainbow was called the python of the sky.

Above us our palace waits, the only one I've ever needed. Its walls are space, its floor is sky, its center everywhere. We rise; the shapes cluster around us in welcome, dissolving and forming again like fireflies in a summer evening.

The sky was full of windy white rags of cloud;

Eliza has the sky in her eyes and I've always wanted to touch the goddamn sky.

Everywhere, it seemed, in the tress and water and sky, a great worldwide sadness came pressing down on me, a crushing sorrow, sorrow like I had never known it before.

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

complete with driving winds and a sky nearly black enough to turn the twilight of the city and surrounding countryside into full night.