Quotes About Ethereal

he stood behind her, tall and pale, like the ghost of his former self…

Hermione was back, holding out a gossamer dress of rainbow chiffon so airy I thought of fireflies on a moonlight night.

Y la esperanza va ensanchando por momentos su ciclo sobre mí, y una imagen, su imagen, pasa vagamente por el éter, como la luna, a veces cegándome de luz ya veces cegándome de sombras.

Aquamarine is an airy blue with a dreamy feel. Cool and calming, ethereal Aquamarine is a shade with a wet and watery feel. Open and expansive, this restful blue also acts as a stress reducer.

Femeia aceasta este într-adev?r frumoas?, dar frumoas? ca o moart?, frumoas? ca o umbr?, frumoas? ca vedeniile ce È›i se arat? în vis; tocmai de aceea mi se pare c-am v?zut-o în vis... È™i am avut vreo dou?-trei visuri însp?imânt?toare în viaÈ›a mea, de care când îmi amintesc îmi înghea?? sângele în vine

a time that is is neither day nor night, when the veil of illusion is thinner and we can see things in the lilac-tinged light that cannot be spied at any other hour

Oh, you're moonlight, he'd said. Harder to see, but there for those who look.

roses) each one shivering with cool silver light.

ghosts are said to move in the corners of human sight.

Oh, you're moonlight, he'd said. Harder to see, but there for those who look.

a pretty little minnow...cool as rain, blue as heaven...

He was pale as salt. Although

Something that could not easily bu put into words and indeed might never be.

The dead are never exactly seen by the living, but many people seem acutely aware of something changed around them. They speak of a chill in the air. The mates of the deceased wake from dreams and see a figure standing at the end of thier bed, or in a doorway, or boarding, phantomlike, a city bus.

I was a soul back on Earth. AWOL a little while from heaven.

Everyman's an angel!

Etherer," said Practical Frost.

There's nothing in this warm, vegetal dusk that is not beautiful or that will last.

If ghosts have a color, then they are the color of an August thunderstorm getting ready to break.

There is something about mountains that moves the soul. They arouse a powerful sense of spiritual awareness and a notion of our own transient and fragile mortality and our insignificant place in the universe. They have about them an ethereal, evocative addiction that I find impossible to resist. They are an infuriating and fascinating contradiction. Climbing rarely makes sense but nearly always feels right.

Heaven's great artillery.

Life without illusion is a ghostly affair.

The crisp path through the field in this December snow, in the deep dark, where we trod the buried grass like ghosts on dry toast.

Or a nacreous sleep among soft particles and charms