Quotes
Quotes about Sun
It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill, Which then seems as if the whole earth is bounded, Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and still, With the far mountain-crescent half surrounded On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill Upon the other, and the rosy sky With one star sparkling through it like an eye.
See! he sinks Without a word; and his ensanguined bier Is vacant in the west, while far and near Behold! each coward shadow eastward shrinks, Thou dost not strive, O sun, nor dost thou cry Amid thy cloud-built streets. - Rev. Frederick William Faber,
Oft did I wonder why the setting sun Should look upon us with a blushing face: Is't not for shame of what he hath seen done, Whilst in our hemisphere he ran his race?
Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai.
Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon Like a magician extended his golden want o'er the landscape; Trinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.
After a day of cloud and wind and rain Sometimes the setting sun breaks out again, And touching all the darksome woods with light, Smiles on the fields until they laugh and sing, Then like a ruby from the horizon's ring, Drops down into the night.
The lonely sunsets flare forlorn Down valleys dreadly desolate; The lonely mountains soar in scorn As still as death, as stern as fate.
The setting sun, and music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in remembrance more than things long past.
When clouds are seen, wise men put on their cloaks; When great leaves fall, then winter is at hand; When the sun sets, who doth not look for night? Untimely storms makes men expect a dearth.
The sun was down, And all the west was paved with sullen fire. I cried, "Behold! the barren beach of hell At ebb of tide."
How fine has the day been! how bright was the sun, How lovely and joyful the course that he run! Though he rose in a mist when his race he begun, And there followed some droppings of rain: But now the fair traveller's come to the west, His rays are all gold, and his beauties are best; He paints the skies gay as he sinks to his rest, And foretells a bright rising again.
All persons as they become less prosperous, are the more suspicious. They take everything as an affront; and from their conscious weakness, presume that they are neglected. [Lat., Omnes quibus res sunt minus secundae magis sunt, nescio quomodo, Suspiciosi; ad contumeliam omnia accipiunt magis; Propter suam impotentiam se credunt negligi.]
Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, Where nothing save the waves and I May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die.
Thank God for grace, Ye who weep only! If, as some have done, Ye grope tear-blinded in a desert place And touch but tombs,--look up! Those tears will run Soon in long rivers down the lifted face, And leave the vision clear for stars and sun.
No radiant pearl, which crested Fortune wears, No gem that twinkling hangs from Beauty's wars. Not the bright stars which Night's blue arch adorn, Nor rising suns that gild the vernal morn, Shine with such lustre as the tear that flows Down Virtue's manly cheek for others' woes.
The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast.
Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will. Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still.
Do villainy, do, since you protest to do't, Like workmen. I'll example you with thievery: The sun's a thief, and with his great attraction Robs the vast sea; the moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun; The sea's a thief, whose liquid surges resolves The moon into salt tears; the earth's a thief, That feeds and breeds by a composture stol'n From gen'ral excrement.
To him whose elastic and vigorous thought keeps pace with the sun, the day is a perpetual morning.
O thrush, your song is passing sweet, But never a song that you have sung Is half so sweet as thrushes sang When my dear love and I were young.
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years.
Lost, yesterday, somewhere between sunrise and sunset, two golden hours, each set with sixty diamond minutes. No reward is offered for they are gone forever.
Lost, yesterday, somewhere between sunrise and sunset, two golden hours, each set with sixty diamond minutes. No reward is offered, for they are gone forever. -Horace Mann.
Here's to Great Britain, the sun that gives light to all nations of the world.
Here's to our beloved George Washington, the Joshua of America, who commanded the sun and the moon to sand still--and they obeyed.
