Bob Dylan Quotes

When the spent sun throws up its rays on cloud And goes down burning into the gulf below, No voice in nature is heard to cry aloud At what has happened. Birds, at least must know It is the change to darkness in the sky. Murmuring something quiet in her breast, One bird begins to close a faded eye; Or overtaken too far from his nest, Hurrying low above the grove, some waif Swoops just in time to his remembered tree. At most he thinks or twitters softly, 'Safe! Now let the night be dark for all of me. Let the night be too dark for me to see Into the future. Let what will be, be.

Finish, good lady; the bright day is done, And we are for the Dark.

Night falls fast. Today is in the past.

The twilight is long fingers and black hair.

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. -Sonnet 73

Night falls. Or has fallen. Why is it that night falls, instead of rising, like the dawn? Yet if you look east, at sunset, you can see night rising, not falling; darkness lifting into the sky, up from the horizon, like a black sun behind cloud cover. Like smoke from an unseen fire, a line of fire just below the horizon, brushfire or a burning city. Maybe night falls because it’s heavy, a thick curtain pulled up over the eyes. Wool blanket.

Suddenly the day was gone, night came out from under each tree and spread.

Night wasn't so much falling as sharpening its claws.

Night had come on like the closing of a great but gentle eye.

Night falls fast. Today is the past.

The whisper of the dusk is night shedding its husk.

The sky slowly pulled up its blue dress to reveal night.

It's twilight. It’s the safest time of day for us. The easiest time. But also the saddest, in a way...the end of another day, the return of the night. Darkness is so predictable, don’t you think?

That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away.

Night was coming on in, borrowing the light. It had started out borrowing just a few cents worth of the light, but now it was borrowing thousands of dollars worth of the light every second. The light would soon be gone, the bank closed, the tellers unemployed, the bank president a suicide.

The longest Day hath an Eueninge.

The dusk was performing its customary intransitive operation of "gathering".

The sun's rim dips; the stars rush out: At one stride comes the dark; With far-heard whisper o'er the sea, Off shot the spectre-bark.

The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.

Twilight, again. Another ending. No matter how perfect the day is, it always has to end.

Til that the brighte sonne loste his hewe; For th'orisonte hath reft the sonne his lyght; This is as muche to seye as it was nyght!

Night is falling: at dusk, you must have good eyesight to be able to tell the Good Lord from the Devil.

Twilight fell: The sky turned to a light, dusky purple littered with tiny silver stars.

The sky grew darker, painted blue on blue, one stroke at a time, into deeper and deeper shades of night.

Fading light buttered the ridges until shadows licked them clean and they were lost to nightfall.