Very nice, peaceful write. A lovely poem to describe the most beautiful times of our day, expressed with deep faith.
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Well done my friend Report Reply. Sunrise to sunset, there is beauty hidden everywhere. Please read my poem What's New? At your leisure. Thank you. Lovely poem about the sunrise and sunset - beautifully described.
Sunset quotes & sunset captions – 200+ quotes to end the day
Beautiful poem of faith. Share this poem:. Autoplay next video. Patricia Grantham. Read this poem in other languages. This poem has not been translated into any other language yet. Patricia Grantham's Other Poems.
Related Poems. A Sunrise Song.
Sunrise, Sunset A Book of Poems By Nichola K. Wallace
Famous Poems. Clouds are the carpe diem of nature. Home-bound, the drifting cloud-crafts rest Where sunset ambers all the west Stoll, "San Francisco's Theatrical Rehabilitation," The Theatre , August The offing was barred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil water-way leading to the uttermost ends of the earth flowed somber under an overcast sky — seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness. And great cloud-continents of sunset-seas. Britton — , "Sun and Shade" Seuss, The Lorax , I can't see the stars anymore living here Let's go to the hills where the outlines are clear Never more glance crossed it In the sky-heart far, But where I had lost it Shone the evening star.
VI, edited by James Hamilton, [W]hen the weather is steady and fair, we see in a far higher region the lovely cirrus cloud; light and waving as locks of hair, or tiny feathers of exquisite hue, the first to catch the splendour of the coming sun, the last to lose the glories of his light Those who thus live and die never have a vision of golden harvests and lovely gardens and verdant fields and lanes crowded with ferns and mosses and vocal with the songs of birds.
Hardly a single flower gladdens their sight; but even they may wistfully gaze up to the clouds which sweep over the sky, and may learn to hope and believe that there is something untainted by defilement, and for evermore beyond the reach of this world's misery and sin.
Some people can never afford to travel; the grandeur of the Alps, the loveliness of the lakes, are only imaginative dreams for them; and even those who visit such fair scenes merely get a hurried glimpse, and then they are back again amidst the turmoil of human life; but the sky is always overhead, and everywhere to be seen The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple-green, and from that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven.
From the copper canyons of the west they steal the glowing embers of the dying sun, and scatter them in blazing climax to light camp fires in the sky. It is vain to be impatient and angry with this; resentment will never scatter the mist or disperse a cloud, whether it be in the world revealed by the sense, or by the spirit.
Stars are but fireflies — I catch them in my playful hands. Someone has to do it.
Methinks it is like a weasel Or like a whale. Each moment in time has created its own unique fingerprint. The moon replies with a poem. SunWolf, professorsunwolf.
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Whether heralding the dawn with beacons of flame and banners of gold, or escorting the sun's descending car with armies of light and sapphire thrones; whether clothing the mountains with garments of beauty, or enriching the landscape with flying shadows; whether shading the weary from the noonday heat, refreshing the field and the garden with gentle showers, or shaking the earth with mighty thunders; whether moving in silent and solitary grandeur along the blue deep of the sky, or covering the whole heavens with black and jagged masses, torn by the tempest and hurled onward like charging hosts in the shock of battle,—glorious in the morning, grateful at noonday, prophetic of the dawn at evening, clouds lend a charm to every landscape, a diversity to every season and a lesson to every thoughtful mind.
No earthly scene could attract us long if deprived of light and shade from the changing clouds, and with our present feelings we should find it hard to be satisfied with heaven itself if it be one unvaried, cloudless noon. We shall hear angels, we shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds. Tranquil its spirit seemed and floated slow; Even in its very motion there was rest The eye, partaking of the quickness of the flashing light, saw in its every gleam a multitude of objects which it could not see at steady noon in fifty times that period What a beautiful sunrise!
One way to open your eyes to unnoticed beauty is to ask yourself, "What if I had never seen this before? What if I knew I would never see it again? It was a clear night without a moon. With a friend, I went out on a flat headland that is almost a tiny island, being all but surrounded by the waters of the bay.
There the horizons are remote and distant rims on the edge of space.
Red Burn and Bright Streaks
We lay and looked up at the sky and the millions of stars that blazed in darkness I have never seen them more beautiful: the misty river of the Milky Way flowing across the sky, the patterns of the constellations standing out bright and clear, a blazing planet low on the horizon. Once or twice a meteor burned its way into the earth's atmosphere.
It occurred to me that if this were a sight that could be seen only once in a century or even once in a human generation, this little headland would be thronged with spectators. But it can be seen many scores of nights in any year, and so the lights burned in the cottages and the inhabitants probably gave not a thought to the beauty overhead; and because they could see it almost any night perhaps they will never see it.
Between the earth and man arose the leaf.
Between the heaven and man came the cloud. His life being partly as the falling leaf, and partly as the flying vapour. But the moon that pulls the tides, and the moon that controls the menstrual periods of women, and the moon that touches the lunatics, she is not the mere dead lump of the astronomist.
When we describe the moon as dead, we are describing the deadness in ourselves. When we find space so hideously void, we are describing our own unbearable emptiness. Lawrence The moon is a mystery novel, the sun a motivational self-help book, and the stars a coffee table book of art. The sky is the library and God the librarian. The wind began to moan in hollow murmurs, as the sun went down, carrying glad day elsewhere; and a train of dull clouds coming up against it, menaced thunder and lightning.
Large drops of rain soon began to fall, and, as the storm-clouds came sailing onward, others supplied the void they left behind and spread over all the sky.