Quotes About Night

All'estremità del ponte c'erano delle piccole strisce di terra su cui, esposta alla dolce brezza notturna, era fiorita una moltitudine di fiori bianchi. Ogni volte che, flessi dal vento, ondeggiavano tutti insieme, per qualche istante restava un'immagine bianca, proprio come succede nei sogni.

In the uncertain ebb and flow of time and emotions, much of one's life history is etched in the senses. And things of no particular importance, or have irreplaceable things, can suddenly resurface in a cafe one winter night.

E' notte nelle strade. Mentre aspettiamo al semaforo è bello vedere la gente che passa davanti al parabrezza, impiegati, donne, giovani, vecchi, brillare alla luce dei fari. E' l'ora in cui, sotto la cupola fredda e silenziosa della notte, tutti, avvolti in maglioni e cappotti, sono diretti verso un posto caldo, chissà dove.

Day had turned to night, and night was passing in the same way all around the world. Now I felt really alone, at the bottom of a deep loneliness that no one could touch.

That's the advantage of insomnia. People who go to be early always complain that the night is too short, but for those of us who stay up all night, it can feel as long as a lifetime. You get a lot done

On nights like this when the air is so clear, you end up saying things you ordinarily wouldn't. Without even noticing what you're doing, you open up your heart and just start talking to the person next to you—you talk as if you have no audience but the glittering stars, far overhead.

Here, in the bare dark face of night A calm unhurried eye draws sight --We see in what we think we fear The cloudings of our thought made clear.

Graffiti is not the lowest form of art. Despite having to creep about at night and lie to your mum it's actually the most honest artform available.

I am kept locked up here like some exotic animal, last survivor of a species they had thought extinct. They should let in people to view me, the girl-eater, svelte and dangerous, padding to and fro in my cage, my terrible green glance flickering past the bars, give them something to dream about, tucked up cosy in their beds of a night.

How could he embrace the bleak and endless night when he had finally learned to love the sun?

Even when light fades and darkness falls--as it does every single day, in every single life--God does not turn the world over to some other deity...Here is the testimony of faith; darkness is not dark to God; the night is as bright as the day.

here is the testimony of faith: darkness is not dark to God; the night is as bright as the day.

What is it about beds at night? During the daytime a bed seems harmless enough. You can take a nap in one on a Saturday afternoon without waking up wondering how much longer you have to live.

I think I would rather hear roundabout music than any symphony concert. I know Beatrix would be disgusted to hear me say so, but its so gladsad somehow and makes me feel brave, late at night long after we were in bed we could hear the music floating over the river, and see the reflected moving lights on our walls, it was beautiful to lie in bed like that.

The sky on a clear night is a living, pulsating thing. The stars are like musical notes turned to light, and, like notes, they shimmer and swell and fade and fall. The painters have never captured it—but they never will until some painter teaches his colors to dance.

Without me, without me, Everyday's misery. But with me - am I wrong? No night is too long!

Mark Twain had written somewhere: We are all mad at night.

By the age I was then I ought to know the truism that things always look different in the morning. As the night comes on and the deeper it gets, the more mad we are, the more prone to dreadful fears and fantasies. In the morning, not when we first wake up but gradually, things begin to look unlike what they looked like at eleven, at midnight.

Few things can be pleasanter than riding a reliable broomstick through a moony autumn night. It is best of all when home is at the end of the journey.

A Star appears; they marked its kindling beam O'er night's dark breast unusual splendours stream: The lesser lights that deck the sky, In wondering silence softly gliding by, At the fair stranger seemed to gaze, Or veiled their trembling fires and half withdrew their rays.

And oft the starry scope of heaven beneath, When day's tumultuous sounds had ceased to breathe, With fixed feet, as rooted there, Through the long night they drew the chilly air; While sliding o'er their head, In solemn silence dread, The' ethereal orbs their shining course pursued, In holy trance enwrapt the sages stood, With folded arms laid on their reverent breast, And to that Heaven they knew, their orisons addressed.

what with the follies and an indecent proposal it's been quite a night

Waking in a strange bed, I'd forgotten magpies until this morning. Beyond the window, one flies over the weathered picket fence, black-white staccato wing beat: moonlit cloud against night sky, snow-streaked shadowed mountain, manic-depressive, winged declaration of disunion.

Sky's gray sheet spreads icy rain. Through the night we heard the branches cracking. Now they bend with the bowed ache of apostrophes. Backs to the window, sitting on the couch, we listen as the radio announces the list of schools closed.