Quotes About Sky

he is defining the immediate future as follows: old people huddling in big cities, afraid of the sky.

Los atardeceres eran increíbles. Algunos días solían ser morados y rosas, otros días era como un abrasador naranja prendiéndole fuego a las nubes en el horizonte. -Juli

it charms mere eyesight to believe The nearest thing not trees Is the sky, into which The trees reach, opening their luminous new leaves… and thought finds rest beneath a brightened tree In which, unseen, a warbler feeds and sings. His song's Small shapely melody Comes down irregularly, as all light's givings come." Sabbaths 1999 III

Those clouds are angels' robes.

If God was down here drinking His coffee, then He was on his second cup, because He'd already Windexed the sky. Only the streaks remained.

If the photographers are soul-thieves, whose soul is being stolen in a photograph of the night sky? The soul of the last one to go to bed and the soul of the first one to rise in the morning, perhaps? Photography is a black art like alchemy. It turns matter into spirit and spirit into matter. Still, there are moments when looking at a photograph of a night sky we have a hunch what the word soul means, what the word infinity encompasses.

My mother was a braid of black smoke. She bore me swaddled over the burning cities. The sky was a vast and windy place for a child to play. We met many others who were just like us. They were trying to put on their overcoats with arms made of smoke. The high heavens were full of little shrunken deaf ears instead of stars.

There's a book called "A Dictionary of Angels." No one has opened it in fifty years, I know, because when I did, The covers creaked, the pages Crumbled. There I discovered The angels were once as plentiful As species of flies. The sky at dusk Used to be thick with them. You had to wave both arms Just to keep them away. Now the sun is shining Through the tall windows. The library is a quiet place. Angels and gods huddled In dark unopened books.

What we are given in dreams we write as blue paint, Or messages to the clouds. At evening we wait for the rain to fall and the sky to clear. Our words are words for the clay, uttered in undertones, Our gestures salve for the wind. We sit out on the earth and stretch our limbs, Hoarding the little mounds of sorrow laid up in our hearts. —Charles Wright, closing lines to "Homage to Paul Cézanne," The Southern Cross: Poems (Random House, 1981)

Spider Crystal Ascension" The spider, juiced crystal and Milky Way, drifts on his web through the night sky And looks down, waiting for us to ascend … At dawn he is still there, invisible, short of breath, mending his net. All morning we look for the white face to rise from the lake like a tiny star. And when it does, we lie back in our watery hair and rock.

I love the distant glow in the nighttime desert sky like a worn yellow spot in the dark everything might still slip through — Charlie Smith, from section 1 "Outside Las Vegas" of "Late Days," Jump Soul: New and Selected Poems (W. W. Norton & Co., 2014)

Above me, the moon spun low across the sky and a few watery clouds hung from the stars like cobwebs. In

Look at all those stars. God has fireworks on display all the time, doesn't He?

In moments among my various agonies, I noticed the beauty that surrounded me, the wonder of things both small and large: the color of a desert flower that brushed against me on the trail or the grand sweep of the sky as the sun faded over the mountains.

It had been so silent in the wake of that commotion, a kind of potent silence that seemed to contain everything. The songs of the birds and the creak of the trees. The dying snow and the unseen gurgling water. The glimmering sun. The certain sky. The gun that didn't have a bullet in its chamber. And the mother. Always the mother. The one who would never come to me.

The sky didn't wonder where it was.

Everything but me seemed utterly certain of itself. The sky didn't wonder where it was.

The Klamath tribe of Native Americans who witnessed the eruption believed it was a fierce battle between Llao, the spirit of the underworld, and Skell, the spirit of the sky.

The air came alive with the sound of the wind whipping the trees at times and at other times it was profoundly hushed by the endless silencing snow. Everything but me seemed utterly certain of itself. The sky didn't wonder where it was.

I want you to have it because I can see that you walk with the spirits of the animals, with the spirits of the earth and the sky.

October 31st dawned damp and cold, but by nine in the morning the misty rain had dissipated, and blue sky broke through. By eleven the sun had dried the leaves to crisp colors, and the world smelled of apples and burning wood smoke and candles and pumpkin innards.

Now ruddy Morn purpled the glowing East...

Night embraces the quiet dark sky Until it sparks alive with morning light

Clouds blaze brilliant colors in a sky on fire.