The sky was dull rose, and a ship on the eastern horizon turned to a ship of fire, clean-cut and poised, a glistening object on a black bar of water.

Surely the sky is the greatest of all melodramatists.

The sky and the balmy air, the woods and glistening water, the rose and honeysuckle, were each a daily joy to him.

On the ground 45 His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along, They move along the ground; and, evermore, Instead of common and habitual sight Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, And the blue sky, one little span of earth 50 Is all his prospect.

Overhead, between the tips of the highest firs, he saw the first stars peeping, and the sky was a clean, pale amethyst that seemed exactly the colour all these memories clothed themselves with in his mind.

The Sky is my tipi.

Rome's azure sky, Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak The glory thy transfuse with fitting truth to speak.

~Friends.~ The wintry sky may be chill and drear, And the wind go sighing in mournful strain,

The sky was a blaze of stars.

Of these facts he took note, and then proceeded "The signs you made to those who first encountered you were understood to mean that you descended from the sky, in a vessel which is now left on the summit of yonder mountain, Asnyca." "I did not descend from the sky," I replied, "for the sky is, as we both know, no actual vault or boundary of the atmospheric depths.

Though now the sky is o-ver-cast, And hea-vy rains are fall-ing fast, And storm and sleet go driv-ing past, And day by day the moan-ing blast Sweeps dead leaves from the tree, No-vem-ber time, that seems so drear, When days are dark and win-ter near, Will pass at length, and Christ-mas cheer

In fact the sky would be the limit.

Oh, there was no warmth in the sunlight, and the sky was a drabby gray, and he was filled with bitterness unutterable.

Like all very old cities built fortuitously it is difficult to learn: the points of the compass are elusive; the streets are so narrow that the sky is no constant guide; the names of the streets are often not there; the policemen have no high standard of helpfulness.

What if the sky is one great concave mirror, which reflects the picture of all our doings, and photographs every act on which it looks upon dead and living surfaces, so that to celestial eyes the stones on which we tread are written with our deeds, and the leaves of the forest are but undeveloped negatives where our summers stand self-recorded for transfer into the imperishable record?

The sky was inky and a few wandering flakes of the now rapidly advancing storm came whirling in, biting my cheeks and stinging my forehead.

Sky and sea were one exquisite azurethe colours of the boats glancing in the sunshine as if they had been jewels; here an emerald rudder, there a gunwale painted with liquid rubies.

Just three words that innumerable dead lips have whispered, while life was yet good and old people were unreasonable and skies were bluethree words that our unborn children's children will whisper to one another when we too have gone to help the grasses in their growing or to nourish the victorious, swaying hosts of some field of daffodils.

"The blue sky is the temple's arch, Its transept earth and air, The music of its starry march

And about them birds twittered cheerily, and the formal garden flourished as gardens thrive nowhere except in Lichfield, and overhead the sky was a turkis-blue, save for a few irrelevant clouds which dappled it here and there like splashes of whipped cream.

Better be here where the skies are as blue As the eyes of your sweetheart a-smilin' at you Better than lyin' 'neath daisies and dew Pretty good world, good people!

The skies were sombre, the foregrounds singularly elaborate, the color stern and forcible.

If on the contrary the skies are only immense spaces full of fluid bodies, like the air that surrounds us, how comes it to pass that so many solid bodies float in them without ever sinking or ever coming nearer one another?

But the skies you are thinking of are not the skies I mean.

With burning woods our skies are brass, The pillars of dust are seen; The live-long day their cavalry pass No crossing the road between.