Left all my Beatle records out in the sun, got a coke bottle stuck on the end of my tongue.
O Christmas Sun! What holy task is thine! To fold a world in the embrace of God!
In the moonlight which is always sad, as the light of the sun itself is--as the light called human life is--at its coming and its going.
I believe in that line from An Imperial Affliction. 'The risen sun too bright in her losing eyes. ' That's God, I think, the rising sun, and the light is too bright and her eyes are losing but they aren't lost.
Long live the sun which gives us such beautiful color.
I knit the afternoon away. I knit reasons for Elijah to come back. I knit apologies for Emma. I knit angry knots and slipped stitches for every mistake I ever made, and I knit wet, swollen stitches that look awful. I knit the sun down.
You can turn off the sun, but I'm still gonna shine
Do something that you love. Whatever you're going to do is going to be tough enough. Find something that gets you so excited that the sun can't come up early enough in the morning because you want to go do your thing.
Cross Creek belongs to the wind and the rain, to the sun and the seasons, to the cosmic secrecy of seed, and beyond all, to time.
Don't you see, if when we die there's nothing, all your sun and fields and what not are all, ah, horror? It's just an ocean of horror.
And then her heart changed, or at least she understood it; and the winter passed, and the sun shone upon her.
The Soviets sought not a place in the sun, but the sun itself. Their objective was the world. They would not tolerate compromise on goals, only on tactics.
Happy is the bride that the sun shines on.
If you have a bald head don't walk out in the sun because you will get burned.
Look at the sun! It’s dry, it’s dead, it needs a drink, it wants blood! And I’ll give it blood!
Seek the sound that never ceases. Seek the sun that never sets.
No one is fanatically shouting that the sun is going to rise tomorrow. They know it's going to rise tomorrow.
Only--but this is rare-- When a beloved hand is laid in ours, When, jaded with the rush and glare Of the interminable hours, Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, When our world-deafen'd ear Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd-- A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast, And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again. The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain, And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know. A man becomes aware of his life's flow, And hears its winding murmur; and he sees The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.
. . . and the night is so deep and dark that I wonder if the sun will ever come up.
Books are carefully folded forestsvoid of autumnbound from the sun