Best 2265 quotes in «moon quotes» category

The other day she asked me "Will you forget me?" I smiled and looked at the sky and asked her: "Can the sky ever forget his moon?

The pair’s beauty reflected in the singing sea itself, entrancing the moon and the constellations. If only the mind was as beautiful as the body.

There is a moon, that rests in the quiet corners of a lover’s lips.

There is no moon. The stars have risen and fallen and given way to a new spread, to the smeared heart of our Milky Way.

The road swerved left. The crash of waves morphed into the rumble of thunder, and the black asphalt tapered to become a slender stretch of rope. She followed it up into the darkness, night spilling around and below her as someone knocked over the ink-jar of the sky and scattered its liquid to the furthest corners, dislodging silver shards of moon that bounced off her umbrella.

The splendor of God is displayed in the stars with the magnificent of the moon.

The sun is an arrogant thing, always leaving the world behind when it tires of us. The moon is a loyal companion. It never leaves. It's always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do. Everyday it's a different version of itself. Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The moon understands what it means to be human. Uncertain. Alone. Cratered by imperfections.

The sun still lives his silent vows to the moon, by bowing to kiss her feet whenever she walks in the room.

The sun is within me, and so is the moon.

The people on earth thought her to be one of the countless stars, how little did they know—she is the moon of another planet.

The practice is simple. Whatever you're doing, do that with total awareness.

There are three things that a beggar and a rich person share every day: the sun, the moon, and the stars.

The sea loved the moon When she was supposed to love the shore. The moon knew And hence made his intentions known. That she should love the shore Who was destined for her. Yet his protests seemed weak. And even when he pushed her towards the shore- She always retreated back. To want, to need, to love the moon For all she's worth. Everyone said, it wasn't meant to happen. Yet, the Tsunami rose that night for their union.

The soft moonlight, The shimmering sky, The rays of the moon, and Bunch of sparkling stars.

The soil of mother earth, is the silence of my soul.

The squeak of oarlocks comes over the lake water A woman's shriek assaults the ear While above, in the sky, inured to everything, The moon looks on with a mindless leer ("The Unknown Lady")

The stars are brilliant at this time of night and I wander these streets like a ritual I don’t dare to break for darling, the times are quite glorious. I left him by the water’s edge, still waving long after the ship was gone and if someone would have screamed my name I wouldn’t have heard for I’ve said goodbye so many times in my short life that farewells are a muscular task and I’ve taught them well. There’s a place by the side of the railway near the lake where I grew up and I used to go there to burry things and start anew. I used to go there to say goodbye. I was young and did not know many people but I had hidden things inside that I never dared to show and in silence I tried to kill them, one way or the other, leaving sin on my body scrubbing tears off with salt and I built my rituals in farewells. Endings I still cling to. So I go to the ocean to say goodbye. He left that morning, the last words still echoing in my head and though he said he’d come back one day I know a broken promise from a right one for I have used them myself and there is no coming back. Minds like ours are can’t be tamed and the price for freedom is the price we pay. I turned away from the ocean as not to fall for its plea for it used to seduce and consume me and there was this one night a few years back and I was not yet accustomed to farewells and just like now I stood waving long after the ship was gone. But I was younger then and easily fooled and the ocean was deep and dark and blue and I took my shoes off to let the water freeze my bones. I waded until I could no longer walk and it was too cold to swim but still I kept on walking at the bottom of the sea for I could not tell the difference between the ocean and the lack of someone I loved and I had not yet learned how the task of moving on is as necessary as survival. Then days passed by and I spent them with my work and now I’m writing letters I will never dare to send. But there is this one day every year or so when the burden gets too heavy and I collect my belongings I no longer need and make my way to the ocean to burn and drown and start anew and it is quite wonderful, setting fire to my chains and flames on written words and I stand there, starring deep into the heat until they’re all gone. Nothing left to hold me back. You kissed me that morning as if you’d never done it before and never would again and now I write another letter that I will never dare to send, collecting memories of loss like chains wrapped around my veins, and if you see a fire from the shore tonight it’s my chains going up in flames. The time of moon i quite glorious. We could have been so glorious.

The stars could fall - the moon could crash from the heavens - and Mariko could not care.

The sun never curses the sky. The moon never curses the sun. The sky never curses the universes.

The Sun, the moon, and the stars are absolutely wonderful things God has made. You see the moon being at your place, and at the same time your loved one could see that glowing ball, making you to feel that you ain't apart, that you are close, just like always.

The sun's down and the moon's pretty - it's time to ramble.

The taste of moon is like honey to all honeymooners, but after some years does the moon's scar make it bitter?

The taste of moon's song.

The USA states that it can put a man on the moon. I have a hard time believing this, as it is quite clear that they cannot build a simple electrical system that does not make people sick in large numbers!

The werewolf by the moon. The wererat by money. (Loup garou par la lune. - Rat garou par les thunes.)

The way to Bliss is through Understanding, through Wisdom.

The well padded astrologer stroked his corpulent belly, as he stared down intently at his cowrie board. There was a frown on his moon shaped face, a face that had always considered good rich food his birthright, even as he strove to read the cryptic messages that the Gods were strewing before him.

They say she is too much to handle, but when the moon pulls the tide and the wolves howl her name, blessed are the ones who have been taken by her wild.

The wisdom of the Moon is greater than the wisdom of the Earth, because the Moon sees the universe closer than the Earth can see it!

The two of us in that room. No past, no future. All intense deep that-time-only. A feeling that everything must end, the music, ourselves, the moon, everything. That if you get to the heart of things you find sadness for ever and ever, everywhere; but a beautiful silver sadness, like a Christ face.

things like how to tell the age of a tree, the dances of the moon and tides, and the names of the clouds-like cumulonimbus and nimbosttratus-that sounded lie magic spells on his tongue.

They stood up and the world was totally different. The wheat was an onyx sea, ever moving in shadow. Above it the heavens were illuminated with the wink of stars and planets, the Milky Way like a giant streak of glimmer slashing across the sky. She was standing right next to him, awed by the beauty of the night sky and their tiny, tiny place in it. It seemed perfectly natural that he leaned down to gently press his lips to her temple. It wasn’t a kiss really, it was a consolation. “Take my hand,” he said. D.J. could see nothing as he unerringly led her through the darkened grain to the edge of the field.

Thirty-five craters on the moon are named for Jesuit scientists and mathematicians.

They try to fight the waves, but they can’t fight the moon. They can’t fight the world’s rotation or the bathymetry of oceans or the inevitability that sometimes things just don’t work out.

This is a dying fleck of love, about a drunken man, and a broken woman, taking steps into the woods, trying to remember the days, when the moon was full.

This probably isn’t something you’re supposed to say at a moment like this, but I think the moon is seriously overrated.” A moment like what? I bite my cheeks, taming the grin that threatens to take over my face. “And the stars?” I ask, once the smile is under control. “Wildly underrated,” he declares with a grin. He looks up again. “The sky is a storybook,” he says then. “Every constellation’s like its own fairy tale.

They wanted the moon, but they hadn't realize it cost the earth.

This book attempts to record a journey to restoration that applies to ordinary people like you and I. It is a shot towards healing. A step headed for a new consciousness. It emerges from a moment in time where all seems lost.

This is a story of eternal love, which is born among the ices but which is soon mixed with dreams of death and of a new dawn. The first heroes were those who surrendered themselves to the holocaust of love. As they died, they caught a last glimpse of the City of Dawn and felt for the last time the milky lightning of the moon.

Those who come very close to the sun are likely to burn their eyebrows; others that come very close to the moon, will be labeled as stars.

Throughout the slow burning of the day, the silver-skinned boy kissed the air with the ghost of moon-soaked lips, images circling his head and under his jaw, and paint spilled onto paper. He said he was not an artist, but the boy he remembered told him once that the language of art is such a sacred dream. And he believed him.

THOUGHTS ON A STILL NIGHT Before my bed, the moon is shining bright, I think that it is frost upon the ground. I raise my head and look at the bright moon, I lower my head and think of home.

To explode or to implode – said Qfwfq – that is the question: whether 'tis nobler in the mind to expand one's energies in space without restraint, or to crush them into a dense inner concentration.

Time was a film run backward. Suns fled and ten million moons fled after them.

Tomorrow at seven o'clock a strange phenomenon will occur: the earth is going to sit on the moon. This has also been written about by the noted English chemist Wellington. I confess, I felt troubled at heart when I pictured to myself the extraordinary delicacy and fragility of the moon. For the moon is usually made in Hamburg, and made quite poorly. I'm surprised England doesn't pay attention to this. It's made by a lame cooper, and one can see that the fool understands nothing about the moon. He used tarred rope and a quantity of cheap olive oil, and that's why there's a terrible stench all over the earth, so that you have to hold your nose. And that's why the moon itself is such a delicate sphere that people can't live on it, and now only noses live there. And for the same reason, we can't see our own noses, for they're all in the moon.

Van Gogh couldn't have painted the stars in your eyes.

Tonight I’ll be looking at the blood moon and maybe I’ll think of you. But maybe I won’t and I probably won’t, but I guess that’s a chance you had to take.

Trust what is not known to your Mind. Trust what is known to your Heart.

Untamable is my mind, like a bee. Enchanting is your beauty, like a rose. Unsurpassable is my soul, like a sky. Unfathomable is your beauty, like a star. Thirsty is my spirit, like a desert. Quenching is your beauty, like a rain. Undefeatable is my triumph, like a worrier. Invincible is your beauty, like a princess. Mysterious is my life, like a night. Revealing is your beauty, like a light. Immovable is my heart, like a mountain. Irresistible is your beauty, like a moon.

Tonight or every night if you wish you can have a very distinguished guest from the space: Just open your curtain at night, then the Moon will visit you!