Best 2219 quotes in «sky quotes» category

It does not matter; there’s many a heavenly body in the lot crowding upon us of a night that mankind had never heard of, it being outside the sphere of its activities and of no earthly importance to anybody but to the astronomers who are paid to talk learnedly about its composition, weight, path--the irregularities of its conduct, the aberrations of its light--a sort of scientific scandal-mongering.

I tear down Baxter, which loops around the last mile down to Back Cove. And then I stop short. The buildings have fallen away behind me, giving way to ramshackle sheds, sparsely situated on either side of the cracked and run-down road. Beyond that, a short strip of tall, weedy grass slants down toward the cove. The water is an enormous mirror, tipped with pink and gold from the sky. In that single, blazing moment as I come around the bend, the sun—curved over the dip of the horizon like a solid gold archway—lets out its final winking rays of light, shattering the darkness of the water, turning everything white for a fraction of a second, and then falls away, sinking, dragging the pink and the red and the purple out of the sky with it, all the color bleeding away instantly and leaving only dark. Alex was right. It was gorgeous—one of the best I’ve ever seen.

It felt so strange to see them all constrained to the breadth of the road after I’d known no limits but the sky for this long. It’s my gift to you. The closest thing we mortals get to real freedom.

I think about celestial junk. Like, maybe every planet in this solar system is discarded by giant hands. Each star a crumpled ball of paper, a love letter lit on fire, a smoldering bit of cigarette ash.

I think I'd rather be heading to detention right now than to talk to him. My stomach is tied up in so many knots it could make a boy scout envious.

I throw my eyes back to the sky. How can it be so bright and calm? How can it be everything I can’t be? It's not fair.

I tilted my head back, breathing deeply. It was a clear, moonless night, and after those long months underground, the sight of all that sky was dizzying. And so many stars—a glittering, tangled mass that seemed close enough to touch. I let their light fall over me like a balm, grateful for the air in my lungs, the night all around me.

It is a bird’s imagination, not its wings, that determines how high it can fly.

It is impossible, on a day like this, to tell sea from sky.

It is not too late... there is time still." I am dying. There are tears in my eyes. Please cradle my head in your hand. Let me look into the stars. Are they really in the sky? Or are they just in my mind because what is there I cannot see? The woman tilted her head, revealing a rim of bruising around a clean-tucked hole in her head. There was blood. Dry blood. This is more pain than a human heart can bear. Like fistfuls of fear, cries shoot from my eyes. There are tears running down my face. It is a salty, bitter taste. My wounds need care. I look up to my mom, but can think of nothing to say. I am dying. I need you. Embrace me. I am dying... "Shhhh...

It was a chilly morning after the night's rain, and the sun hung in the sky like a pale coin lost by someone high up in the clouds.

It's like some part of me is always with you" she said. I looked at the sky and smiled.

It was a wonderful night, such a night as is only possible when we are young, dear reader. The sky was so starry, so bright that, looking at it, one could not help asking oneself whether ill-humoured and capricious people could live under such a sky. That is a youthful question too, dear reader, very youthful, but may the Lord put it more frequently into your heart!

It was dark, now, the gossamer moon hanging among diamond stars in the soft black of the night.

It’s killing me, baby,” he says, his voice much more calm and quiet. “It’s killing me because I don’t want you to go another day without knowing how I feel about you. And I’m not ready to tell you I’m in love with you, because I’m not. Not yet. But whatever this is I’m feeling—it’s so much more than just like. It’s so much more. And for the past few weeks I’ve been trying to figure it out. I’ve been trying to figure out why there isn’t some other word to describe it. I want to tell you exactly how I feel but there isn’t a single goddamned word in the entire dictionary that can describe this point between liking you and loving you, but I need that word. I need it because I need you to hear me say it.

It's ironic that stars are dead, yet still manage to light up the sky.

It's only out of reach when you choose to keep your feet flat on the floor.

It tugs at me, filling me with the kind of seasick nostalgia that can hit you in the gut when you find an old concert ticket in your purse or an old coin machine ring you got down at the boardwalk on a day when you went searching for mermaids in the surf with your best friend. That punch of nostalgia hits me now and I start to sink down on the sky-coloured quilt, feeling the nubby fabric under my fingers, familiar as the topography of my hand.

It was grey windless weather, and the bell of the little old church that nestled in the hollow of the Sussex down sounded near and domestic. We were a straggling procession in the mild damp air - which, as always at that season, gave one the feeling that after the trees were bare there was more of it, a larger sky... ("Sir Edmund Orme")

It was one of those bitter mornings when the whole of nature is shiny, brittle, and hard, like crystal. The trees, decked out in frost, seem to have sweated ice; the earth resounds beneath one's feet; the tiniest sounds carry a long way in the dry air; the blue sky is bright as a mirror, and the sun moves through space in icy brilliance, casting on the frozen world rays which bestow no warmth upon anything.

I want to lay under the blanket of sky and laugh while the stars wink and we write our story.

I used to walk out, at night, to the breakwater which divides the end of the harbor form the broad moor of the salt marsh. There was nothing to block the wind that had picked up speed and vigor from its Atlantic crossing. I’d study the stars in their brilliant blazing, the diaphanous swath of the milk Way, the distant glow of Boston backlighting the clouds on the horizon as if they’d been drawn there in smudgy charcoal. I felt, perhaps for the first time, particularly American, embedded in American history, here at the nation’s slender tip. Here our westering impulse, having flooded the continent and turned back, finds itself face to face with the originating Atlantic, November’s chill, salt expanses, what Hart Crane called the “unfettered leewardings,” here at the end of the world.

I use the terms "sky" and "earth" because as a human I cannot imagine those elements not being there. It is a way to give substance to nothingness.

Listen I have moved on... I cannot be waiting for your sun When I have to bring in illumination to my own sky Of what purpose does drifting have If not to make circles inside squares I have lived recklessly enough to understand the signals from the stars Maybe the fault is indeed in our dreams That yours and mine belong to two different skies!

I wish I had a brush that could paint the whole sky and turn every morning into night. I wish I could always sleep next to you in the never ending night and hold your hand, watching the reflection of all the stars in your eyes, while you smile and watch them in the sky with wonder.

I wiped my hands on my apron and went to the window. Outside, the prairie reached out and touched the places where the sky came down. Though the winter was nearly over, there were patches of snow and ice everywhere. I looked at the long dirt road that crawled across the plains, remembering the morning that Mama had died, cruel and sunny. They had come for her in a wagon and taken her away to be buried. And then the cousins and aunts and uncles had come and tried to fill up the house. But they couldn’t.

Like a splendid mosaic of myriad colors, she in all her hues of sensitivity would paint her feelings in your mind’s gray skies. She was the butterfly making you run after her. She was the Zahir, a mirage that transcended borders and time-zones.

I was hopelessly looking for the sky in the abyss But it turned out that it is in your eyes

I will meet you in the light, in the morning one, when raindrops fall on your mild skin and your blue eyes sparkle better than the sky. (fragment from "I will meet you then", chapter Hope)

Listen to the sunset...see its pretty hue... When you see it, think of me...and I'll think of you...

Listen to what the sky is telling you.

Listen I have moved on... I cannot be waiting for your sun When I have to bring illumination to my own sky Of what purpose does drifting have If not to square the circle I have lived recklessly enough to understand the signals from the stars Maybe the fault is indeed in our dreams That yours and mine belong to two different skies!

Look', she said. It's going to be a beautiful sunset. Shall we stay out and watch it?' 'All right,' I said, and we stayed there on the lawn for quite awhile, arms around each other's waists, first watching the bright colors come up in the sky, then watching them fade to ashes of gray.

Looking up at that starry sky gave him the creeps: it was too big, too black. It was all too possible to imagine it turning blood-red, all too possible to imagine a Face forming in lines of fire.

Look up at the sky and be grateful for being a tiny little fragment of a beautiful blue planet.

Mahtab looked out of the window at the moon clearing the rooftops, bathing everything around in its silver light. She sighed, envying Nasim's freedom. For just like Mahtab's namesake, as the moonlight was beholden to the sun, she was beholden to her family.

Love is a selfless service to mankind like a showcase done by the twinkling stars in beautiful nightly sky.

Love me like today is the last day we can see stars in the sky, let us sleep under them and throw ourselves into the oblivion and never again reach out for reality.

Man is the sky turned inside out.

Man ist am Himmel umgeben von einer Scheinwelt, die eigentlich schon längst Geschichte ist.

Many will point at you to say what they think you are. A few will say what they are. The art of the color of the sky is based on the few; the many, there are just too many of them; would you like to remain alone at the end of your life, following someone else's sense of certainty?

May you cross the sky united in the dark, May you rise in Iightland, the place in which you shine! Horus, go proclaim to the powers of the east And their spirits: This Unas comes, a spirit indestructible, Whom he wishes to live will live, Whom he wishes to die will die! UNAS PYRAMID TEXTS Utterance 217 Sarcophagus Chamber, South Wall The king joins the sun-god

Meet me there, where the sea meets the sky...

My mind is the sun, and my heart is the moon. In the sky between them, there I am. Cristen Rodgers

Mind is the second sky on earth, full of mysteries!

Mine is a quest, for a mouthful of skies. !

My body is a damn traitor.

my dear, I have nothing to say. my heart burns like the evening sky.

My favourite conversations are those with the universe, I speak all that I am and the most beautiful response flies a shooting star across the sky, it's proof ~ vibrations of light have the capacity to change our world.

...my heart is a desolate field over which geese vee, the sky turns and the days lie fallow...