Quotes About Ethereal

The sort of poetry I seek resides in objects man can't touch.

It was the hour of unreality.

Invisible things are the only realities.

From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,Out of Space—out of Time.

And all my days are trances,And all my nightly dreamsAre where thy gray eye glances,And where thy footstep gleams—In what ethereal dances,By what eternal streams.

Her angel's faceAs the great eye of heaven shined bright,And made a sunshine in the shady place.

Awake and asleep the novel is with you, dogging your footsteps. Strange formless bits of material float out from the ether about you and attach themselves to the main body of the story as though they had hung suspended in air for years, waiting.

but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight

Edinburgh. A soft gray loveliness, fog-shrouded, gray-green, gray-blue, gray-gray, mauve, melting, misting over, grave.

I mean by a picture a beautiful, romantic dream of something that never was, never will be - in a light better than any light that ever shone - in a land no one can define or remember, only desire - and the forms divinely beautiful - and then I wake up, with the waking of Brynhild.

Raindrops are like fairy whispers.

Man did eat angels' food.

Sweet little flower of heavenly birth You were too fair to bloom on earth.

My days are consumed like smoke.

What is your life? It is even a vapor, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.

Who maketh his angels spirits, and his ministers a flame of fire.

This wisdom descendeth not from above, but is earthly, sensual, devilish.

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

she is as inescapable as a moon.

The eggs taste like clouds. Like spun gold.

The voice is like something from a long-ago dream.

The air swarms with so much that is invisible!

The years passed as clouds do, ephemeral and vaporous, condensing, sliding along awhile, then dispersing like ghosts.

To me, it's like the difference between a pen and a paintbrush. Music draws from almost the identical place as art does, which really is that intangible - it's like you're pulling from the ether. I don't know where it comes from. Nobody really does. It sort of arrives when it wants to.