Night Quotes - Page 9

Night is purer than day; it is better for thinking, loving and dreaming. At night everything is more intense, more true. The echo of words that have been spoken during the day takes on a new and deeper meaning.

The rangers of the night stay strangers in the eye of time.

Each night, when I go to sleep, I die. And the next morning, when I wake up, I am reborn.

Maybe it's for good what has happen, maybe it's not for good. Nobody knows, but don't ruin your day thinking about this sad event (The Dead). In the film "The Night Before", the same thing happen, but it went to something new and wonderful, marvelous how??The friends become best friends, parties, loads fun. This is all what we need!

There was a sky somewhere above the tops of the buildings, with stars and a moon and all the things there are in a sky, but they were content to think of the distant street lights as planets and stars. If the lights prevented you from seeing the heavens, then preform a little magic and change reality to fit the need. The street lights were now planets and stars and moon.

It’s the moment when something happens not just deep among the trees but also in the dark interior of the human heart, for the heart, too, has its night and its wild surges, as strong an instinct for the hunt as a wolf or a stag. The human night is filled with the crouching forms of dreams, desires, vanities, self-interest, mad love, envy, and the thirst for revenge, as the desert night conceals the puma, the hawk and the jackal.

To speak your Heart outnothing can be better than Night and Acoustic guitar !!

The emptiness, the way his heels rang on the asphalt,was satisfying, emphasised his aloneness. A man alone, alone late at night with no one to say he should be home in bed.

Death’s life should have listened to the moonly whispers of breathing in the coldest nights

Night is the fatherland of the great inspirations.

Night, which in Autumn seems to fall from the sky so suddenly, chilled us...

All night the earth and the heavens followed their usual arrangements. Stars passed: an immense tide hung over them. A silent sea raced back with the sun, its wave turn-over small, delicate and comfortless. The most glorious of all stars hung above the sun's threshold and went out. An hour later the sun governed the earth again, mist-chasing, flower-opening, bird-rousing, ghost-driving, spirit-shepherding back out the various gates of sleep.

The moon went slowly down in loveliness; she departed into the depth of the horizon, and long veil-like shadows crept up the sky through which the stars appeared. Soon, however, they too began to pale before a splendour in the east, and the advent of the dawn declared itself in the newborn blue of heaven. Quieter and yet more quiet grew the sea, quiet as the soft mist that brooded on her bosom, and covered up her troubling, as in our tempestuous life the transitory wreaths of sleep brook upon a pain-racked soul, causing it to forget its sorrow. From the east to the west sped those angels of the Dawn, from sea to sea, from mountain-top to mountain-top, scattering light from breast and wing. On they sped out of the darkness, perfect, glorious; on, over the quiet sea, over the low coast-line, and the swamps beyond, and the mountains above them; over those who slept in peace and those who woke in sorrow; over the evil and the good; over the living and the dead; over the wide world and all that breathes or as breathed thereon.

Crooked Warden, I will fear no darkness for the night is yours," muttered Locke, pointing the first two fingers of his left hand into the darkness. The Dagger of the Thirteenth, a thief's gesture against evil. "Your night is my cloak, my shield, my escape from those who hunt to feed the noose. I will fear no evil, for you have made the night my friend.""Bless the Benefactor," said Jean, squeezing Locke's left forearm. "Peace and profit to his children.

Rape, cockroaches... are still a real nightmare.

Before the first before and after the last after, there is night waiting.

You know you love him when you can't sleep at night and get up early to talk to him the next morning.

You may think you see plenty of stars, friend reader, but you are wrong. Night is both blacker and more brilliant than you can imagine, and the sky a glory that puts to shame the most splendid jewels at Renwick's.

People who live in the night are acquainted with all kinds of quiet. There’s quiet enough to hear the distant traffic. Quiet enough to hear your breathing. Quiet enough to hear a lover’s heartbeat. There’s please-god-don’t-let-me-die quiet, and can’t-remember-her-name quiet. Is-he-lying quiet and can’t-make-rent quiet. There’s the quiet that inspires poets, and quiet that torments the lonely.

Don't accommodate complains in your chamber, else you have a sleepless and restless night. Keep them away and fall in love with actions for solution!

... going out late at night and laying in the dewy field and reading a Kurt Vonnegut book by moonlight.

Last night, lost in spaces between star—bays and lakes of clouds, I tossed and turned looking for you

When something hurts them, they weep.By night, they rest, they sleep

savorwith methe lushnessof a lingering sleep...and last night’sdream.

The bird of hope singsPerched on the branches of twilight;Never grieve for anythingFor, the day always follows the night!

Tonight’s going to be one of those things that seem to last forever.

Seeing that I would never manage to fall asleep, I arose, lit a candle, and after dressing went outside.Beneath the dull glow of the winter moon the snow glowed like pale blue china. The sidewalks sparkled weakly beneath the rays of the flickering street lamps; the benumbed streets slumbered forlornly. I walked, passing one corner after the other, and suddenly found myself on the edge of town. Further, beyond the square, an endless expanse began to glisten with a somber silverness.I stopped just before the gates. My intent gaze could distinguish nothing in the distant white expanse. Before me rose the imposing bank of the Volga like a gigantic snowdrift. So barren and uninviting was this deserted view resembling eternity that my heart contracted.I turned to the right and approached quite close to the monastery enclosure. From behind the bronze gates, glimmered a dense net of crosses and gravestones. The ancient eyes of the church gazed forbiddingly down on me, and with an eerie feeling I thought of the monks sleeping at this moment in tomb-like cells together with corpses. Were any of them thinking of the hour of death on this night?("Lamia")

For Death is the meaning of night;The eternal shadowInto which all lives must fall, All hopes expire.

Last night was dark and full of terror and while we slept, the angels kept their watch of wondering love.

The weather was clear and still, and the countless stars opened above them, seeming like brilliant cold fruits that Maerad could simply pick out of the sky.

Then without any warning the car stopped. They were there."The ride's over," someone said. "End of the ride."For a moment nobody got out. They just sat there. The driver cut the ignition, and after that there was silence. Complete, uncanny silence, more frightening than the most threatening noise or violence could have been. Night silence. A silence that had death in it. ("The Number's Up")

There open up, deep inside a city, reflected streets, streets which are double, make-believe streets. One's imagination, bewitched and misled, creates illusory maps of the apparently familiar districts, maps in which the streets have their proper places and usual names but are provided with new and fictitious configurations by the inexhaustible inventiveness of the night.

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!

Out here, the open night is my church, the trees are my congregation, the stars are my angels and the moon is the only god that I know.

Contentedly sat the old woman. Soon now, the sea would hold no terrors, and the blinds wouldn't have to be down, nor the windows shut; she would even be able to walk along the shore at midnight as of old; and they, whom she had deserted so long ago, would once more shrink from the irresistable energy aura of her new, young body.The sound of the sea came to her, where she sat so quietly; calm sound at first, almost gentle in the soft sibilation of each wave thrust. Farther out, the voices of the water were louder, more raucous, blatantly confident, but the meaning of what they said was blurred by the distance, a dim, clamorous confusion that rustled discordantly out of the gathering night.Night!She shouldn't be aware of night falling, when the blinds were drawn.("The Witch")

let me diefrom having being drunk onindigo skies, my liver...overflowing with stars.

It’s not easy to kill; it’s not supposed to be. If it is, then there’s something wrong with you. But sometimes good people have to do unpleasant things just so we can come home at night to our kids.

Come let us haste, the stars grow high, But night sits monarch yet in the mid sky.

38. “A wet bird never flies at night.” (My grandfather said that to me when I was a child and warned me not to forget it. I remember his words but never did figure out what he meant!)

Nothing was more beautiful than a night sky dusted with stars. Nothing was more terrible than a night sky scrawled with a thousand destinies. Night was inevitable. Like me.

The things that happen in the night are hidden even from the night.

People talk about nightfall, or night falling, or dusk falling, and it’s never seemed right to me. Perhaps they once meant befalling. As in night befalls. As in night happens. Perhaps they, whoever they were, thought of a falling sun. That might be it, except that that ought to give us dayfall. Day fell on Rupert the Bear. And we know, if we’ve ever read a book, that day doesn’t fall or rise. It breaks. In books, day breaks, and night falls.In life, night rises from the ground. The day hangs on for as long as it can, bright and eager, absolutely and positively the last guest to leave the party, while the ground darkens, oozing night around your ankles, swallowing for ever that dropped contact lens, making you miss that low catch in the gully on the last ball of the last over.

It’s the beating of my heart. The way I lie awake, playing with shadows slowly climbing up my wall. The gentle moonlight slipping through my window and the sound of a lonely car somewhere far away, where I long to be too, I think. It’s the way I thought my restless wandering was over, that I’d found whatever I thought I had found, or wanted, or needed, and I started to collect my belongings. Build a home. Safe behind the comfort of these four walls and a closed door. Because as much as I tried or pretended or imagined myself as a part of all the people out there,I was still the one locking the door every night.Turning off the phone and blowing out the candles so no one knew I was home. ’cause I was never really well around the expectations of my personalityand I wanted to keep to myself. and because I haven’t been very impressed lately. By people, or places.Or the way someone said he loved me and then slowly changed his mind.

At night I lay awake, her likeness casting dark shadows across my soul and senses, and my stomach throbbing away. I imagined her arms around me, lulling me into a phantom bliss, so frustrating, so unreal.

I've often been sorry to see a night end, even while I have loved seeing the dawn come.

I don’t like coming over here at night, the girl said. The bayou is scary in the dark, all manner of things running wild out there.

Bored with the upsetting realities of the day? Then leave yourself to the calming mysteries of the night!

By night, I am free. No one hears my monsters but me. My freedom is fragile, though, Because every morning, Over and over, The night is broken by the sun. It’s a good way to die.

The starry night sky echoed across my thoughts, the expanse of my own void filtered in its quiet solitude.

White-crested waves crash on the shore. The masts sway violently, every which way. In the gray sky the gulls are circling like white flakes. Rain squalls blow past like gray slanting sails, and blue gaps open in the sky. The air brightens.tA cold silvery evening. The moon is overhead, and down below, in the water; and all around it-a wide frame of old, hammered, scaly silver. Etched on the silver-silent black fishing boats, tiny black needles of masts, little black men casting invisible lines into the silver. And the only sounds are the occasional plashing of an oar, the creaking of an oarlock, the springlike leap and flip-flop of a fish. ("The North")

I spent all nightweaving a poem for you to wear. You look so beautifulwhen you wear my light.

I ran from them. Nights, yellow lights scoured sand. What was ever found but women in skirts folded around the men they loved that Friday? No one found me. And how could that have been, here, whereeven botanical names were recordedand small roads mapped in red?Night, the sky is black paper pecked with pinholes.

One thing about London is that when you step out into the night, it swallows you.

If you walk in the light, all the darkness around you shall disappear.

Ceaseless as the interminable voices of the bell-cricket, all night till dawn my tears flow.

Such a night cannot be shaken from a woman’s memory. Such a night changes your life forever.

Most love stories are nocturnal. That's what makes them so fascinating.

Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.

at night i loved her at night i waited under the tarp at night i watched her looking up at the stars dreaming of a better time to watch me

Night had come and eaten everything.