D. H. Lawrence Quotes

What do you do there, moon, in the sky? Tell me what you do, silent moon. When evening comes you rise and go contemplating wastelands; then you set.

Not secondary to the sun, she gives us his blaze again, Void of its flame, and sheds a softer day... In Heaven queen she is among the spheres; She, mistress-like, makes all things to be pure.

The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to.

The moon, like a flower in heaven's high bower, with silent delight sits and smiles on the night.

Perhaps the crescent moon smiles in doubt at being told that it is a fragment awaiting perfection.

The full moon - the mandala of the sky.

Sometimes, they say, the moon is so busy with the new souls of the world that it disappears from the sky. That is why we have moonless nights. But in the end, the moon always returns, as do we all.

Under your skin the moon is alive.

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon.

And suddenly the moon withdraws her sickle from the lightening skies, and to her sombre cavern flies, wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze.

The moon, too, abases her subjects, but in the daytime she is ridiculous. Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, white and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide. No day is safe from news of you, walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.

The moon, by her comparative proximity, and the constantly varying appearances produced by her several phases, has always occupied a considerable share of the attention of the inhabitants of the earth.

Ever since I was a kid, I have loved the Moon. It's always there and continues to inspire humanity.

I'm really fascinated by the moon.

At night, the moon, a pregnant woman, walks cautiously over the slippery heavens.

The young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset's fire.

The moon has set In a bank of jet That fringes the Western sky, The pleiads seven Have sunk from heaven And the midnight hurries by; My hopes are flown And, alas! alone On my weary couch I lie.

A naked moon stood in a naked sky.

Even the moon is only poetical because there is a man in the moon.

The fortune of us that are the moon's men doth ebb and flow like the sea, being governed, as the sea is, by the moon.

When the moon is ninety degrees away from the sun it sees but half the earth illuminated (the western half). For the other (the eastern half) is enveloped in night. Hence the moon itself is illuminated less brightly from the earth, and as a result its secondary light appears fainter to us.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, White as a knuckle and terribly upset. It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.