Quotes
Quotes about Moon
The sunrise wakes the lark to sing, The moonrise wakes the nightingale. Come, darkness, moonrise, everything That is so silent, sweet, and pale: Come, so ye wake the nightingale.
What can we gain by sailing to the moon if we are not able to cross the abyss that separates us from ourselves? This is the most important of all voyages of discovery, and without it, all the rest are not only useless, but disastrous.
Moonlight is sculpture.
And the wand-like lily which lifted up, As a Maenad, its moonlight-coloured cup, Till the fiery star, which is its eye, Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky.
But who will watch my lilies, When their blossoms open white? By day the sun shall be sentry, And the moon and the stars by night!
All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call; It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.
I bought an unction of a mountebank, So mortal that, but dip a knife in it, Where it draws blood so cataplasm so rare, Collected from all simples that have virtue Under the moon, can save the thing from death That is but scratched withal. I'll touch my point With this contagion, that, if I gall him slightly, It may be death.
But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft Quenched in the chaste beams of the wat'ry moon, And the imperial vot'ress passed on, In maiden meditation, fancy-free.
I do not want a plain box, I want a sarcophagus With tigery stripes, and a face on it Round as the moon, to stare up. I want to be looking at them when they come Picking among the dumb minerals, the roots. I see them already-the pale, star-distance faces. Now they are nothing, they are not even babies. I imagine them without fathers or mothers, like the first gods. They will wonder if I was important.
Mercy among the virtues is like the moon among the stars ... It is the light that hovers above the judgment seat.
I stood on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose over the city, Behind the dark church tower.
Transcendental moonshine.
Soon as the evening shades prevail, The moon takes up the wondrous tale, And nightly to the listening earth Repeats the story of her birth.
The moon is a silver pin-head vast, That holds the heaven's tent-hangings fast.
The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep to-night.
Doth the moon care for the barking of a dog?
The moon pull'd off her veil of light, That hides her face by day from sight (Mysterious veil, of brightness made,) That's both her lustre and her shade), And in the lantern of the night, With shining horns hung out her light.
He made an instrument to know If the moon shine at full or no; That would, as soon as e'er she shone straight, Whether 'twere day or night demonstrate; Tell what her d'ameter to an inch is, And prove that she's not made of green cheese.
The devil's in the moon for mischief; they Who call'd her chaste, methinks, began too soon Their nomenclature; there is not a day, The longest, not the twenty-first of June, Sees half the business in a wicked way, On which three single hours of moonshine smile-- And then she looks so modest all the while!
Into the sunset's turquoise marge The moon dips, like a pearly barge; Enchantment sails through magic seas, To fairland Hesperides, Over the hills and away.
The sun had sunk and the summer skies Were dotted with specks of light That melted soon in the deep moon-rise That flowed over Groton Height.
The moving moon went up to the sky, And nowhere did abide; Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside.
When the hollow drum has beat to bed And the little fifer hangs his head, When all is mute the Moorish flute, And nodding guards watch wearily, On, then let me, From prison free, March out by moonlight cheerily.
How like a queen comes forth the lonely Moon From the slow opening curtains of the clouds Walking in beauty to her midnight throne!
Lend me thy pen To write a word In the moonlight. Pierrot, my friend! My candle's out, I've no more fire;-- For love of God Open thy door! [Fr., Au clair de la lune Mon ami Pierrot, Prete moi ta plume Pour ecrire un mot; Ma chandelle est morte, Je n'ai plus de feu, Ouvre moi ta porte, Pour l'amour de Dieu.]
