Ah! when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!
I love night more than day–she is so lovely; But I love night the most because she brings My love to me in dreams which scarcely lie
How lovely are the portals of the night,When stars come out to watch the daylight die.
One summer night, out on a flat headland, all but surrounded by the waters of the bay, the horizons were remote and distant rims on the edge of space. Millions of stars blazed in darkness, and on the far shore a few lights burned in cottages. Otherwise there was no reminder of human life. My companion and I were alone with the stars: 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. It occurred to me that if this were a sight that could be seen only once in a century, this little headland would be thronged with spectators. But it can be see 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 never will.
Dreams permit each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of our lives.
The night walked down the sky with the moon in her hand.
Beware of the night, child. All cats are black in the dark.
Night, like a giant, fills the church, from pavement to roof, and holds dominion through the silent hours. Pale dawn again comes peeping through the windows: and, giving place to day, sees night withdraw into the vaults, and follows it, and drives it out, and hides among the dead.
If it wasn’t for O’Flanagan’s Pub on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, I don’t know where I would have spent my Friday nights as a young man.
The evening darkens overAfter a day so bright,The windcapt waves discoverThat wild will be the night.
In the middle of the nightWhen Im in this dreamIts like a million little starsSpelling out your name
Research is the name given the crystal formed when the night’s worry is added to the day’s sweat.
No sight is more provocative of awe than is the night sky.
Night is a world lit by itself.
I should call it a night, but fuck it I cant resist: this one is for all the niggas from my city tryna diss. Without a response from me you really fail to exist and I love to see you fail, that feeling there is the shit.
My ex send late night text cause she dont know to let go.
A woman who pretends to laugh at love is like a child who sings at night when he is afraid
One may not reach the dawn save by the path of the night.
Night, the beloved. Night, when words fade and things come alive. When the destructive analysis of day is done, and all that is truly important becomes whole and sound again. When man reassembles his fragmentary self and grows with the calm of a tree.
I cannot walk through the suburbs in the solitude of the night without thinking that the night pleases us because it suppresses idle details, just as our memory does.