Quotes About Lamps

Canary light of oil lamps

The lamps in one street after another were lighted till it seemed to him that a pervading darkness, like some demon, was keeping its eyes wide open to watch every movement of its victim.

INTERIOR Her mind lives in a quiet room, A narrow room, and tall, With pretty lamps to quench the gloom And mottoes on the wall. There all the things are waxen neat And set in decorous lines; And there are posies, round and sweet, And little, straightened vines. Her mind lives tidily, apart From cold and noise and pain, And bolts the door against her heart, Out wailing in the rain.

You could measure how long I would remember that moment by the redness of my cheeks. My father saw that I liked projects and taught me how to make lamps out of Chianti bottles.

I do not like bad photographs. I don't like to be badly lit. There is a fashion, particularly on stage, for very 'toppy' lighting, which makes a child look 50. Ten o'clock is very good. If someone is taking a picture, you say, 'Lamps at 10 o'clock,' then everybody looks lovely.

Perhaps the woman was waiting beneath the lamps for cats to drop from the trees, like fruit.

The stars, that nature hung in heaven, and filled their lamps with everlasting oil, give due light to the misled and lonely traveller.

All my wife has ever taken from the Mediterranean - from that whole vast intuitive culture - are four bottles of Chianti to make into lamps, and two china condiment donkeys labelled Sally and Peppy.

My home has to feel airy and bright with natural light. I don't switch on lamps until it is literally black outside.

The wise become as the unwise in the enchanted chambers of Power, whose lamps make every face the same colour.

At night the bottom of the valley looks like water, and the lamps in the little town lying along it like quivering reflections of the stars.

The white sky was becoming pearly, and the street lamps suddenly punctured the gloaming.

they say the herons used to hang like lamps here giving off gloom

The air there was heavy with the somnolence of a party prolonged into the early hours; and a dull light came from the lamps, whose charred wicks glowed red inside their globes. The ladies had reached that vaguely melancholy hour when they felt it necessary to tell each other the story of their lives.

Heaven trims our lamps while we sleep.

Statuettes of drunken sailors, velvet pictures of island maidens, plastic seashell lamps made in Taiwan. What contempt the people who think up souvenirs have for other people.

What pretensions humans have! Why bother to make music when the silence and wind are so much larger? Why light lamps when the darkness will inevitably snuff them?

Lamps were not left burning on the table when dinner was over; before going to bed, the mistress of the house - who had a part to play in family priestly duties - saw to it that the house was swept, the lararium and the hearth carefully cleaned.

overhead; before her was another long passage, and the White Rabbit was still in sight, hurrying down it. There was not a moment to be lost: away went Alice like the wind, and was just in time to hear it say, as it turned a corner, 'Oh my ears and whiskers, how late it's getting!' She was close behind it when she turned the corner, but the Rabbit was no longer to be seen: she found herself in a long, low hall, which was lit up by a row of lamps

Gonzo narrows his eyes. 'How often do you clean that thing?' 'Every night,' the waitress answers. Her smile is strained. 'That's it? Do you know how long it takes for Listeria to grow under those hot lamps, even with ice?' Here we go. 'It can happen in just five hours. Five hours and you've got the salad bar of death!' The waitress looks confused. 'From Listerine?

The days were lengthening. A wet primrose light lay over Wells Road. The lamps were like jewels, pale but piercingly bright. The air... fresh and mild.

A wound gives off its own light surgeons say. If all the lamps in the house were turned out you could dress this wound by what shines from it

By way of farewell, I recited Mandelshtam's † melancholy poem: The horses tread slowly, The lamps burn low, And where they are taking me Only strangers know.

Another dawn flung itself across the river; a belated taxi hurried along the street, its lamps still shining like burning eyes in a face white from a nights' carouse.