Quotes About Sky

Oh, love, love, love - Love on a hilltop high, Love against a cloudless sky, Love where the scene is Painted by a million stars, Love with martinis In the cabarets and bars. Oh, love, love, love...

Did time move forward, through people, or did people move through it like clouds across the sky?

And is it so hard to believe that souls might also travel those paths? That her father and Etienne and Madame Manec and the German boy named Werner Pfennig might harry the sky in flocks, like egrets, like terns, like starlings? That great shuttles of souls might fly about, faded but audible if you listen closely enough?

The moon sets and the eastern sky lightens, the hem of night pulling away, taking stars with it one by one until only two are left.

The stars were so many and so white they looked like chips of ice, hammered through the fabric of the sky.

We are mice, he thinks, and the sky swirls with hawks.

From outside comes a light tinkling, fragments of glass, perhaps, falling into the streets. It sounds both beautiful and strange, as though gemstones were raining from the sky.

A corner of the night sky, beyond a wall of trees, blooms red. In the lurid, flickering light, he sees that the airplane was not alone, that the sky teems with them, a dozen swooping back and forth, racing in all directions, and in a moment of disorientation, he feels that he's looking not up but down, as though a spotlight has been shined into a wedge of bloodshot water, and the sky has become the sea, and the airplanes are hungry fish, harrying their prey in the dark.

At dusk they pour from the sky. They blow across the ramparts, turn cartwheels over rooftops, flutter into the ravines between houses. Entire streets swirl with them, flashing white against the cobbles. Urgent message to the inhabitants of this town, they say. Depart immediately to open country.

The sky a pit of violet, edged with black.

The sky drops silver threads of sleet.

But the huge bowl of the sky remains untracked: no zeppelins, no bombers, no superhuman paratroopers, just the last songbirds returning from their winter homes, and the quicksilver winds of spring transmuting into the heavier, greener breezes of summer.

They're in an empty lot. The sky is jewel blue and cloudless. Huge white stones lie among weeds like the lost molars of giants.

The lost Greek tale Cloud Cuckoo Land, by the writer Antonius Diogenes, relating a shepherd's journey to a city in the sky, was probably written around the end of the first century C.E.

in a moment of disorientation, he feels that he's looking not up but down, as though a spotlight has been shined into a wedge of bloodshot water, and the sky has become the sea, and the airplanes are hungry fish, harrying their prey in the dark.

To survive here required one to sip the air; the wide sky belonged to the nobles.

Soon there was a horizon, ironed flat as if by the load of the sky, and a sailboat toiling across it.

But he is learning. It is as if he is learning all over again how to put the world into words. A tree is an open hand shaken twice by your right ear; whale is three fingers dipped through a sea made by the opposite forearm. The sky is two hands touched above the head, then swept apart, as though a rift has formed in the clouds and you are swimming through them, into heaven.

by huge, solid trunks with the sky blotted out

And as they turned onto the M40 motorway at Junction 9, near Bicester, not one of them even noticed the oversized helicopter that had suddenly appeared in the sky about a mile behind, like some strange, primeval monster. They didn't see how almost at once, it began to swoop down towards them, trailing something that looked, at least from a distance, like a huge claw…

The sun hovered briefly on the horizon, then dipped below. At once, the clouds rolled

fact, I've always had a fondness for seaside towns, particularly out of season when the streets are empty and the sky is grey and drizzling.

There's something just magical about flight. Period.

I wanted to fly when I was little.