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He answered and said unto them, When it is evening, ye say, It will be fair weather: for the sky is red. And in the morning, It will be foul weather to day: for the sky is red and lowring. O ye hypocrites, ye can discern the face of the sky; but can ye not discern the signs of the times?

"Darkly, deeply, beautifully blue," As some one somewhere sings about the sky.

And they were canopied by the blue sky, So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, That God alone was to be seen in Heaven.

Arrestment, sudden really as a bolt out of the blue has hit strange victims.

The mountain at a given distance In amber lies; Approached, the amber flits a little,-- And that's the skies!

How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!

Bolt from the blue.

And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky, Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die, Lift not your hands to it for help--for it As impotently moves as you or I.

The sky is that beautiful old parchment in which the sun and the moon keep their diary.

The planets in their station list'ning stood.

From hyperborean skies Embodied dark, what clouds of vandals rise.

A sky full of silent suns.

Sometimes gentle, sometimes capricious, sometimes awful, never the same for two months together; almost human in its passions, almost spiritual in its tenderness, almost Divine in its infinity.

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.

I have of late--but wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame the earth seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire--why, it appeareth nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors.

Heaven's ebon vault, Studded with stars unutterably bright, Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls, Seems like a canopy which love has spread To curtain her sleeping world.

I go back to those who say: what if the heavens fall?

Of evening tinct, The purple-streaming Amethyst is thine.

Never till then so many thunderbolts from cloudless skies.

Green calm below, blue quietness above.