Jean Ingelow Quotes

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

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.

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

The moon is nothing But a circumambulating aphrodisiac Divinely subsidized to provoke the world Into a rising birth-rate

the moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy

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.

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

There's the moon asking to stay long enough for the clouds to fly me away

The moon, like to a silver bow new bent in heaven.

The moon is swimming naked and the summer night is fragrant with a mighty expectation of relief.

The moon invented natural rhythm. Civilization uninvented it.

What was supposed to be so special about a full moon? It was only a big circle of light. And the dark of the moon was only darkness. But halfway between the two, when the moon was between the worlds of light and dark, when even the moon lived on the edge...maybe then a witch could believe in the moon.

a full moon is a flashlight so everyone can see your drama!

The new moon rode high in the crown of the metropolis. Shinin', like "Who on top of this?

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.

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.

Moon, worn thin to the width of a quill,/ In the dawn clouds flying,/ How good to go, light into light, and still/ Giving light, dying.

The summer moon hung full in the sky. For the time being it was the great fact of the world.

The moon rose, an opalescent goddess tipping light from her harsh maternal scimitar.