And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky, Whereunder crawling coopd we live and die, Lift not your hands to it for helpfor it As impotently moves as you or I. Omar KhayyamRubaiyat. FitzGeralds trans. St. 72.
Sometimes gentle, sometimes capricious, sometimes awful, never the same for two moments together; almost human in its passions, almost spiritual in its tenderness, almost Divine in its infinity. RuskinThe True and Beautiful. The Sky.
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. SapphoFragment. J.S. Easby-Smiths trans.
Heavens ebon vault, Studded with stars unutterably bright, Through which the moons unclouded grandeur rolls, Seems like a canopy which love has spread To curtain her sleeping world. ShelleyQueen Mab. Pt. IV.