Quotes About Night

Yet here, this night, you might repose with me, On green leaves pillowed: apples ripe have I, Soft chestnuts, and of curdled milk enow. And, see, the farm-roof chimneys smoke afar, And from the hills the shadows lengthening fall!

Postera Phoebea lustrabat lampade terras

Umbrarum hic locus est, somni noctisque soporae; corpora viva nefas Stygia vectare carina.

Vertitur interea caelum et ruit oceano nox, inuoluens umbra magna terramque polumque.

Vertitur interea caelum et ruit oceano nox, involvens umbra magna terramque polumque Myrmidonumque dolos;

Lo scender ne l'Averno è cosa agevole ché notte e dì ne sta l'entrata aperta; ma tornar poscia a riveder le stelle, qui la fatica e qui l'opra consiste.

ibant obscuri sola sub nocte per umbram, perque domos Ditis vacuas et inania regna: quale per incertam lunam sub luce maligna est iter in silvis, ubi caelum condidit umbra Iuppiter, et rebus nox abstulit atra colorem.'' - Virgil, Aenid Liber VI, 268-272.

Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.

I desired always to stretch the night and fill it fuller and fuller with dreams.

The sigh of all the seas breaking in measure round the isles soothed them; the night wrapped them; nothing broke their sleep, until, the birds beginning and the dawn weaving their thin voices in to its whiteness

Night had come—night that she loved of all times, night in which the reflections in the dark pool of the mind shine more clearly than by day.

But what after all is one night? A short space, especially when the darkness dims so soon, and so soon a bird sings, a cock crows, or a faint green quickens, like a turning leaf, in the hollow of the wave.

Doesn't it make you melancholy—looking at the stars?

Am dorit întotdeauna s? dilat noaptea È™i s? o umplu din ce în ce mai mult cu vise.

Let us consider letters—how they come at breakfast, and at night, with their yellow stamps and their green stamps, immortalized by the postmark—for to see one's own envelope on another's table is to realize how soon deeds sever and become alien. Then at last the power of the mind to quit the body is manifest, and perhaps we fear or hate or wish annihilated this phantom of ourselves, lying on the table.

The window was all sky without colour. The house had lost its shelter. It was night before roads were made, or houses. It was the night that dwellers in caves had watched from some high place among rocks. Then the curtain rose. They spoke.

One feels even in the midst of the traffic, or waking at night, Clarissa was positive, a particular hush, or solemnity; an indescribable pause; a suspense before Big Ben strikes. There! Out it boomed. First a warning, musical; then the hour, irrevocable. The leaden circles dissolved in the air.

But what after all, is one night? A short space, especially when the darkness dims so soon, and so soon a bird sings, or a faint green quickens, like a turning leaf, in the hollow of the waves. Night, however, succeeds to night. The winter holds a pack of them in store and deals them equally, evenly, with indefatigable fingers. They lengthen; they darken. Some of them hold aloft clear planets, plates of brightness.

The night and the stars, the dawn coming up, the barges swimming past, the sun setting.... Ah dear, she sighed, well, the sunset is very lovely too. I sometimes think that poetry isn't so much what we write as what we feel, Mr. Denham.

I am obsessed at nights with the idea of my own worthlessness, and if it were only to turn a light on to save my life I think I would not do it.

Translating this to the spiritual regions as their wont is, the poets sang beautifully how roses fade and petals fall. The moment is brief they sang; the moment is over; one long night is then to be slept by all.

Hail, happiness, then, and after happiness, hail not those dreams which bloat the sharp image as spotted mirrors do the face in a country-inn parlour; dreams which splinter the whole and tear us asunder and wound us and split us apart in the night when we would sleep; but sleep, sleep, so deep that all shapes are ground to dust of infinite softness, water of dimness inscrutable, and there, folded, shrouded, like a mummy, like a moth, prone let us lie on the sand at the bottom of sleep.

Una noche vi una estrella corriendo entre las nubes, y le dije: ''Consúmeme''.

All night men and women seethed up and down the well-known beats.