Quotes About Ethereal

What he was after hangs between the visible and the invisible, between the here and now and the seemingly elsewhere.

His mind seemed barely tethered to his body, much less the earth.

Maybe poets get to you best when you're sort of dreaming, when you're hardly there at all.

The sky is low and gray and loose and seems to hang. There's something baggy about the sky.

not sexy so much as angelic, like all the world's light had gotten together and arranged itself into the shape of a face.

She was the kind of fatally pretty and nubile wraithlike figure who glides through the sweaty junior-high corridors of every nocturnal emitter's dreamscape

Beyond that elfin face, the steady eyes, there was something breathing, something that was fed blood from a tiny heart beating under pointed breasts. But is was cobweb under the fingers. Cobweb in the woods that touches the face and disappears under the fingers.

We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

My soul is in the sky.

We all are men, in our own natures frail, and capable of our flesh; few are angels.

Is it not strange that sheep's guts could hail souls out of men's bodies?

The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots and wonders At out quaint spirits.

Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear, Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows. The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand, And, touching hers, make blessèd my rude hand. Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.

Some there be that shadow kiss; Such have but a shadow's bliss.

A dream itself is but a shadow.

How far is't call'd to Forres? What are these So wither'd and so wild in their attire, that look not like the inhabitants o' the earth, And yet are on't? Live you? or are you aught That man may question? The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, And these are of them. Whither are they vanish'd? Into the air; and what seem'd corporal melted As breath into the wind. Would they had stay'd!

for everything has a trace of the divine in it.

Whatever that be which thinks, understands, wills, and acts. it is something celestial and divine.

he thinks that flowers are hauntingly delicate like a sigh of nobody in the dark.

Eu não sou um intelectual, escrevo com o corpo. E o que escrevo é uma névoa úmida. As palavras são sons transfundidos de sombras que se entrecruzam desiguais, estalactites, renda, música transfigurada de órgão.

Transfiguro la realidad y entonces otra realidad soñadora y noctámbula me crea.

Friendship is...the sort of love one can imagine between angels.

What allows us to be human is something daemonic.

a grey wrinkled vastness, like the residue of a dream