Quotes About Night

I arise from dreams of theeIn the first sweet sleep of night,When the winds are breathing low,And the stars are shining bright.

Rough wind, that moanest loudGrief too sad for songWild wind, when sullen cloudKnells all the night longSad storm, whose tears are vain,Bare woods, whose branches strain,Deep caves and dreary main, - Wail, for the world's wrong

Good-night? ah! no; the hour is ill Which severs those it should unite; Let us remain together still, Then it will be good night. How can I call the lone night good, Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight? Be it not said, thought, understood -- Then it will be -- good night. To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light, The night is good; because, my love, They never say good-night.

To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light, The night is good; because, my love, They never say good-night.

Tell me, thou Star, whose wings of light Speed thee in thy fiery flight, In what cavern of the night Will thy pinions close now? Tell me, Moon, thou pale and gray Pilgrim of heaven's homeless way, In what depth of night or day Seekest thou repose now? Weary Mind, who wanderest Like the world's rejected guest, Hast thou still some secret nest On tree or billow?

Swift stars with flashing tresses

The cold earth steps below, Above the cold sky shone; And all around, with a chilling sound, From caves of ice and fields of snow, The breathe of night like death did flow Beneath the sinking moon.

TO THE QUEEN OF MY HEART. (Published as Shelley's by Medwin, "The Shelley Papers", 1833, and by Mrs. Shelley, "Poetical Works", 1839, 1st edition; afterwards suppressed as of doubtful authenticity.) 1. Shall we roam, my love, To the twilight grove, When the moon is rising bright; Oh, I'll whisper there, In the cool night-air, 5 What I dare not in broad daylight!

The loveliest of faces are to be seen by moonlight, when one sees half with the eye and half with the fancy.

I slept badly that night, my vivid dreams populated by ghosts. As much as it revived ailing spirits in day light, the fizzy energy of NY seemed to feed on human frailty at night.

And by attempting to explain everything, even as it recognizes that this is impossible since the very principles of explanation are themselves obscure. Balzac necessarily ends up like Scheherazade, telling stories night after night to stave off the silence of the end.

Meteorites fell through the night sky like a gentle sleet of icefire

I'm an appropriate companion personality for a girl your age, young missy. We spent all night ransacking that library to see what I should be like. You got any idea what it's like watching eight million hours of Disney AVs?

At night in the town's countryside, you could just about feel and hear everything, but without using lamps, it was impossible to see anything other than shadows

I woke sometime in the middle of the night and lay in the hammock, wriggled my foot out of the sleeping bag into the chill and found the rough ground with my bare foot and rocked myself back and forth. And watched the stars swim against the mesh of leaves. Like a fish nosing a net. This is what we are, what we do: nose a net, push push, a net that never exists. The knots in the mesh as strong as our own believing. Our own fears.

Late August, a clear night becoming cold. There was no aurora borealis, just the dense sparks of the stars blown from their own ancient fire.

Because at night there is a comfort in moving darkly. In slipping through, shadow to shadow. Can't say why. Maybe because we were hunters, all of us. The way a cat moves in the shadows. Or a wolf. The instinctive safety in that.

Tonight—it is still night, though barely—I don't say a word, because tonight I am watching myself a little and I have always despised the sentimental, maybe because it is a familiar weakness.

There were curtains of night gray that curved against the wind and in them it was almost as if he could see the lives of his mother and of his best friend, their spirits, coming to him. It was not as if they lived, exactly, but maybe they were not lost forever to the great dark.

This is what you left, I thought. The vindication of the choice you made to leave that night. Vindication and horror. Sometimes being right isn't all it's cracked up to be: how many times in the last few years I thought about bitter fruit, how when what you are right about is—well you can't even look at it.

Then came night that was like falling water. At times, for hours, a bird spirit, half buzzard, half swan, just above the rushes from which a snow-storm howls.

On the wooded hillsides below, an owl hooted, heralding the first liquid trills of a nightingale, while in the air above, tiny bats dashed to and fro like fleeting splashes of shadow. Then, somewhere on a distant mountain farm, a dog barked a warning to imagined marauders skulking by his master's gate. Mallorca was preparing to sleep.

God called the light “day,” and the darkness He called “night.” And there was evening, and there was morning—the first day.

And God said, “Let there be lights in the expanse of the sky to distinguish between the day and the night, and let them be signs to mark the seasons and days and years.