| Author |
Quotes |
| Alexander Pope | From hyperborean skies Embodied dark, what clouds of vandals rise. |
| Alfred Kreymborg | The sky is that beautiful old parchment in which the sun and the moon keep their diary |
| Bayard Ruskin | Sometimes gentle, sometimes capricious, sometimes awful, never the same for two months together; almost human in its passions, almost spiritual in its tenderness, almost Divine in its infinity. |
| Alexander Pope | From hyperborean skies Embodied dark, what clouds of vandals rise. |
| Emily Dickinson | The mountain at a given distance In amber lies; Approached, the amber flits a little,-- And that's the skies! |
| James Thomson | Of evening tinct, The purple-streaming Amethyst is thine. |
| Jean Paul Richter | A sky full of silent suns. |
| John Greenleaf Whittier | Green calm below, blue quietness above. |
| Omar Khayyam | And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky, Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die, Lift not your hands to it for help-for it As impotently moves as you or I. |
| Percy Bysshe Shelley | Heaven's ebon vault, Studded with stars unutterably bright, Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls, Seems like a canopy which love has spread To curtain her sleeping world. |
| Sappho | The moon has set In a bank of jet That fringes the Western sky, The pleiads seven Have sunk from heaven And the midnight hurries by; My hopes are flown And, alas! alone On my weary couch I lie. |
| Terence Afer | I go back to those who say: what if the heavens fall? |
| Vergil | Never till then so many thunderbolts from cloudless skies. |
| Horatius Flaccus | Bolt from the blue. |
| John Milton | The planets in their station list'ning stood. |
| Thomas Carlyle | Arrestment, sudden really as a bolt out of the blue has hit strange victims. |
| Thomas Hood | How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled! |
| William Wordsworth | The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart, he never felt The witching of the soft blue sky! |
| William Shakespeare | I have of late--but wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises, and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame the earth seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire--why, it appeareth nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors. |
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