Quotes About Sky

Hay aire y sol, hay nubes. Allá arriba un cielo azul y detrás de él tal vez haya canciones; tal vez mejores voces… Hay esperanza, en suma. Hay esperanza para nosotros, contra nuestro pesar.

Hacía tantos años que no alzaba la cara, que me olvide del cielo. Y aunque lo hubiera hecho, ¿qué habría ganado? El cielo está tan alto, y mis ojos tan sin mirada, que vivía contenta con saber dónde quedaba la Tierra.

Uncle Feather came to town, Flying in the blue sky. Yellow nose and yellow legs And he belongs to me oh my . . .

We are the mimics. Clouds are pedagogues.

It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound.

It was her voice that made The sky acutest at its vanishing. She measured to the hour its solitude. She was the single artificer of the world In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea, Whatever self it had, became the self That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we, As we beheld her striding there alone, Knew that there never was a world for her Except the one she sang and, singing, made.

He brushed away the thunder, then the clouds, then the colossal illusion of heaven. Yet still the sky was blue.

The sky would be full of bodies like wood. There would have been cries of the dead And the living would be speaking, As a self that lives on itself.

Word over all, beautiful as the sky,Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time be utterly lost,That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash again, and ever again, this soil'd world;For my enemy is dead, a man divine as myself is dead.

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd,And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

Its hold was loaded with coffee, rice, tea, oil seeds and jute. Black smoke poured from its one stack, darkening the hot cloudless sky. Alexander

November's sky is chill and drear,November's leaf is red and sear.

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day; the sky was clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet.

A few amber clouds floated in the sky without a breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple-green, and from that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven.

The plane passes close to the sky but fails to land on the clouds. The only way to get closer to God is through charity.

I leaned back and glimpsed the stars, the same stories again but written in the sky.

Fly for me, Bird of the Sun.

The desire to fly is an idea handed down to us by our ancestors who... looked enviously on the birds soaring freely through space... on the infinite highway of the air.

No bird can soar in a calm.

Riflessi di uccelli continuavano a spalmarsi sull'acqua, anche quando il cielo era vuoto. Un prodigioso fenomeno ottico, disse Humboldt. L'ottica non c'entra niente, disse Mario. Gli uccelli morivano continuamente, in ogni momento, in realtà non facevano quasi nient'altro. I loro spiriti sopravvivevano nei loro riflessi. Da qualche parte dovevano pur andare, giacché in cielo erano indesiderati. E gli insetti?, chiese Bonpland. Quelli non muoiono mai. E proprio lì stava il problema.

the yogi sees the world as desire. Everything—a leaf falling from a tree, the sky, the snow, the water he drinks, his food—desires him.

The sky was a dome of pale blue streaked with alabaster. Crossing the Stephansplatz, he was nearly toppled by the wind. It was an Arctic wind, chilled by the fjords and glaciers of Norway, strengthened by the icy plains of Poland, and now it was hammering against the gates of Vienna like a barbarian horde.

Washington is in the clear upper sky.

To cover the houses and the stones with green—so the sky would make sense—you have to push down black roots into the dark. —CESARE PAVESE