In tragedy and despair, when an endless night seems to have fallen, hope can be found in the realization taht the companion of night is not another night, that the companion of night is day, that darkness always gives way to light, and that death rules only half of creation, life the other half.
Dean KoontzMots clés day night tragedy depression lonliness darkness-and-light
Night falls fast. Today is in the past.
John GreenA calm night is open to all the truths.
Mehmet Murat ildanMots clés night
I've never really understood why people sleep. Wasting a third of your life and becoming vulnerable for almost 8 hours every night. Doesn't seem very appealing to me.
BanksyMots clés life people sleep night waste vulnerable appealing hours banksy understood
He was in a fairy kingdom where everything was possible.
He looked up at the sky. And the sky was a fairy realm like the earth. It was clearing, and over the tops of the trees clouds were swiftly sailing as if unveiling the stars.
Mots clés war night fantasy earth sky battle war-and-peace petya
The seasonal urge is strong in poets. Milton wrote chiefly in winter. Keats looked for spring to wake him up (as it did in the miraculous months of April and May, 1819). Burns chose autumn. Longfellow liked the month of September. Shelley flourished in the hot months. Some poets, like Wordsworth, have gone outdoors to work. Others, like Auden, keep to the curtained room. Schiller needed the smell of rotten apples about him to make a poem. Tennyson and Walter de la Mare had to smoke. Auden drinks lots of tea, Spender coffee; Hart Crane drank alcohol. Pope, Byron, and William Morris were creative late at night. And so it goes.
Helen BevingtonMots clés poetry writing writers night apple poets winter seasons tea april spring alcohol fall morris coffee autumn pope apples burns keats insomnia longfellow tennyson shelley hart-crane may milton september season auden nocturnal wordsworth byron de-la-mare schiller spender
POST
Not a head stands out
A finger rises
Then it is the voice that one knows
A signal
a brief note
A man leaves
Up above a cloud that passes by
No one goes in
And the night keeps its secret
When daylight is here i dream of the night,
The stars of a country sky that shine so bright.
A night sky without clouds, for the moon to hide under,
Revealing every twinkle and every beam, of the Milky Way's wonder.
I grow sad in the morning,
And i pay the day no mind.
Every time i see the light coming,
I know the sunset's not far behind.
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.
Stephen MosleyThis day I ceased to plead. I was no longer capable of lamentation. On the contrary, I felt very strong. I was the accuser, God the accused.
Elie WieselMots clés god religion faith night lamentation elie-wiesel
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