Quotes About Sky

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

Up in the rainbow teepee sky, nonone's looking down on you and i. That's just a mirror in your eye ... If i believe in something, i have to believe in myself ... The world is full of changes; sometimes those changes make me sad ... I think I'll hit the peace trail ...

The great trains howling from track to track all night. The taut and telegraphic murmur of ten thousand city wires, drawn most cruelly against a city sky. The rush of city waters, beneath the city streets. The passionate passing of the night's last El.

Anna took her solace where she always did. The smell of the earth, the touch of the sky held for her a special alchemy, able to turn loneliness into aloneness, and so make it, if not sacred, at least bearable.

The light that remained was of the clear gray quality that reminds one that the sky is not a blanket of blue benevolently spread over the earth but only the beginning of cold and impossible distances

Before he had completed this thought, the peak of the mountain was flooded with thin rose colour, too austere to be theatrical, but so vivid that its beauty was painful. He felt that kind of impatience and disquietude that sudden beauty brings. He could not stand and watch the flood of warmth flow down the flanks of the mountain nor the intolerable transfiguration of the sky.

The water is this marvellous blue. It's so blue that once you see it you realise you've never seen blue before. That other thing you were calling blue is some other colour, it's not blue. This, this is blue. It's a blue that comes down from the sky into the water so that when you look in the sea you think sky and when you look at the sky you think sea.

The sun's still keeping the sky somewhat colored, even though it's already gone down beyond the horizon. There are strips of patterned pinks and oranges layered up like sideways colored bars. A Los Angeles sunset, made beautiful by a screen of haze, pollution, and trash. It says a lot about this city. It says a lot about the people who live here.

Did you know that baby, You're the bluebird in my sky, I only want to make you happy Because I love you see you fly

The prison was like a set of dirty teeth, and the land around it was like a bad mouth, and the sky above it was like the grey face of the person who owned the teeth and the mouth and didn't care a damn about either of them.

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

Wind swept dark tatters across a sky rippling with luminous cloud from horizon to horizon like a well-muscled torso, bringing with it the smell of dust and grass and a sweetness she could not identify.

The sky was soft and milky, like the plain; it was as if she stood inside a hollow pearl. It made her dizzy.

The musicians were hidden at the heart of the enclosure; the music seemed to come from the sky. God music.

Hild, always visible, always watched, settled an attentive look on her face and drifted away into the music still cycling through her head. Cool, clear, endless as the sky. Perhaps it would help with any cleansing to come.

Hild stood on the headland in the light mist of dawn with her toes hanging over the edge of the grassy east cliff. The edge of all things. Between day and night, between sky and earth, sea and land. The land smelt of iron and salt.

A woman with hair a dusty black-brown and eyes of deep blue-the deep dark blue of the dome of sky late in summer when the day turns towards night, but dark won't fall, not quite, because summer wants to stay, hold on the world, linger forever.

The late afternoon sky over the lake this time was grey, but the water laughed and sparkled, reflecting the blue sky and other time and place.

Puedes vender cielo, el cielo azul a veces, o gris también a veces, una parcela de tu cielo, el que compraste, piensas tú, con los árboles] de tu huerto, como quien compra el techo con la casa?] ¿Puedes venderme un dólar de cielo, dos kilómetros de cielo, un trozo, el que tú piensas, de tu cielo?

Of all the creatures that creep, swim, or fly,Peopling the earth, the waters, and the sky,From Rome to Iceland, Paris to Japan,I really think the greatest fool is man.

The sky is dense with light, so many stars crowded against one another, it looks like the night is too small for them. How will they get out? I imagine they will hold hands to become morning.

The negatives he did manage were made in the hour or two when the sun seemed to rally with a yellowy light reminiscent of an egg yolk; usually, it looked pale as a pearl on the steely blue or leaden sky above the snow-scrubbed lake. That's a purple passage fit for a novel but hardly descriptive of the actuality of that winter, which was almost past enduring.

Hark to the sky of a seagull! He cries because he's not an eagle. Oh, what if you were you silly he-gull? What would you say to your she-gull?

She Was Just A Sketch a thin girl under a thick sky so thin, each rib stood for something something to which this great tenderness, a mere irrational love toward certain flowers and trees, could attach —Olena Kalytiak Davis, from "Welcome to Lascaux," And Her Soul Out of Nothing (University of Wisconsin Press, 1997)